Every Major City
by Judy Blue Eyes
Summary: When you're chasing anyone across the country, you'd better be in love, but sometimes even love isn't worth the consequences. Is leaving everything behind worth what you get in the end? Or might you just find something you're missing? ConnorOC MurphyOC
1. The Morning Paper

A/N: Dear Readers! How happy I am to have this lovely first chapter ready to be posted. I believe many of you are very happy too. I like to think so anyways. Well, every Major City has no Prologue because it begins directly after the end of the last two stories… Well, directly after the end of Gravity, to be exactly. It does, however, have a very long author's note from me, your friendly author. First thing's first. Every Major City _is a sequel_ to How it Falls and Gravity. Thus, it contains spoilers for both of those stories. Although I will not stop you from reading this if you have not read those stories, I strongly suggest you do read those first in the order they were published because it will make all three much more enjoyable.

Secondly, I have based this story, as usual, on some songs. Now this, to me, seems to be turning out to be a much larger undertaking than its predecessors, so it has more than one song. I will give them now. The two main songs are "Chicago" by Sufjan Stevens and "A Rose in April" by Kate Rusby. Both of these are wonderful songs and I would recommend listening to them, however, I would not listen to "A Rose in April" just yet as it has some very literal, very intense spoilers contained within it. Other songs that play in the movie version of this in my head include Sarah Dashew's "Morningtime", Kris Delmhorst's "Word Fail You", The Rankins' "Bells", Patty Griffin's "Not Alone", and I am Kloot's "Proof". I may mention more as they intertwine with the story. None of these other songs have any super intense spoilers contained within.

Thirdly, I do appologize for the summary of this one, guys. It royally bites. But I promise you the story will be better than it sounds. It's just hard to fit anything describing a story like this into a space that small.

Now that I've gone through a bunch of stuff none of you care about, keep your hands and feet inside the vehicle at all times and enjoy the chapter.

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Anna had taken off her shoes again and was sprinting down the street towards the MacManuses apartment. She flew up the steps, ignoring the pain in her legs and the aching of her head. She whipped her hair out of her eyes and spun around the corner and through the door… into an empty apartment. Anna stopped in the living room, breathing heavily. The apartment was torn to pieces. The sofa was in shambles, cushions flung around the room. The little TV was smashed to pieces on the floor. She could see a broken dressed drawer through the open bedroom door. In the kitchen, pieces of plates and food were scattered ever which way. And, in a corner, a newspaper caught her eye. "Saints of South Boston Revealed" it screamed out to her and she bent down to pick it up. Her breathing had slowed now and all was quiet. She stared blindly at the article for a time before the tears came to her eyes and the words to her lips. "Why didn't you tell me? Oh, Murphy, why didn't you tell me?"

She took a deep breath and flung the paper to the floor. Jesus, what had they done to the place? Obviously they'd fled, but had it really been necessary to smash everything in the process? Anna leaned against the counter, surveying the scene, deciding what to do. Then she looked down. What a sight she was in her evening gown and hoodie. The slit in the side of her dress was now three times the size it had been when she'd started out the night before and the hem was tattered and caked in mud. Her feet were muddy and red and she could only imagine what the rest of her looked like, hair all amok, mascara running down her face. She heaved herself exhaustedly off of the counter and shuffled toward the bedroom. Inside there was nothing. She wasn't sure what she'd expected to find, but somehow she'd hoped for an abandoned pair of jeans or something. It wasn't as thought the boys had had a lot, though, and she supposed they'd have taken everything with them. And so they had.

Anna shuffled into the bathroom and surveyed her face in the mirror, before plunging her hands into the water the faucet poured out for her and viciously scrubbing the grime from her features. When she was done, she turned off the water and sighed. That was all she could do for now. The world would go on turning. She made her way back into the living room and replaced the cushions as best she could on the sofa. It wasn't as though they'd been in good shape to begin with, but now they were absolutely disgusting. Again she shrugged. What else was she to do but sit on them? So she did. She sat on the couch with her head in her hands for a very, very long time. The sun rose up, high in the sky, and the sun went down. And when twilight had come, Anna was still sitting with her head in her hands.

There was a clicking sound then, and a rustle of clothing, and Anna almost looked up, but forgot to. She didn't even look up at the sound of the voice that called to her from across the room, "You're Anna." The person drew closer, stepping lightly over the broken TV and to her side. "Do you remember me, Anna? I'm Trista."

Anna looked up. "Trista?"

"What happened to you, Anna?" Trista said, sitting down beside the younger girl.

Anna shook her head. "I don't even know," she said dejectedly.

Trista stroked back Anna's hair from her eyes. "Come on," she said. "Let's get you cleaned up."

Half an hour later, Anna emerged from her leisurely shower. "Here," Trista said, handing Anna her newly revamped evening dress. "I cut off the bottom and washed out the dirt. Now it's a cute dress for clubbing. Trade me your sweatshirt and you can wear my coat. That'll look better."

"What are we doing?" Anna asked her, taking the dress questioningly.

"We're going to my apartment. You can find something better to wear there. Come on. Get dressed. Let's go."

"Oh-- Okay," Anna replied timidly and reentered the bathroom to dress.

"So you got away did you?" Anna heard Trista shout through the door.

"Got away?"

"Yeah. From your father. Connor told me Murphy was horribly upset about you getting caught there again. But you know he really couldn't risk trying to get you out."

"I know," Anna responded, even thought she didn't know. Why couldn't he risk it? He risked his life to kill bad people every day… or at least on a regular basis. Why couldn't he risk it for her?

"But you made it out. Good for you. I suppose it's my job to take care of you now, then."

"Take care of me?!" Anna exclaimed indignantly as she opened the door. "I am not a child, Trista. It's not as though I need looking after."

"That's not the way I heard it," Trista said, setting down the magazine she'd been reading and rising from the couch. "Listen, if you're going to be hiding from a Mafioso, you're going to need some help, no matter who you are. And it's very lucky for you, I have a very good track record keeping secrets." Anna said nothing as Trista approached her. "You need makeup. And a hairclip or something. Here." Trista held out the little makeup bag she'd withdrawn from her purse. "Go to town."

Once again, Anna returned to the bathroom, this time leaving the door open so she could hear Trista when she inevitably kept up the conversation. Except she didn't. Trista just went back to paging through her magazine. Apparently, she had nothing more to say. Anna didn't like the silence. "So… did they call you or something?"

Trista looked up. "What?"

"Murphy and Connor. Did they like… call you?"

"No…"

Anna stuck herself in the eye with the mascara. "Ah-- Uh… how did you know then?"

"That they were gone?" Trista asked, coming to the bathroom door. "I came here."

"But-- I was here. You weren't here." Anna said, turning about with half-finished makeup.

Trista giggled. "Finish your face, kid and let's go. I wasn't here today, no. Obviously not."

"Obviously not?"

Trista clapped her hands in Anna's face. "Makeup. Concentrate."

Anna turned back to the mirror and her work. "Obviously not?" she repeated.

"Right."

"What obviously not? When were you here then?"

"Three days ago."

"What?"

"What what?"

"The paper said 'Saints of South Boston Revealed' so the boys ran. How did you know they ran if you weren't here this morning when they went?"

"Anna, honey," Trista laughed. "Did you happen to take a look at the date on that paper? That paper came out three days ago." Anna had finished her makeup and was now looking at Trista blankly as she brushed out her damp hair. "Did you really think I just waltzed in here knowing they were gone and was this calm?" Now Trista laughed openly. "No, no, no," she said. "See all this mess? See it?" Anna nodded. "They didn't make this mess. I did. Well, they made some of it. They made a little mess in the kitchen. But I smashed the dishes and I killed the dress and I broke the TV. I was out of my mind with rage and pain and everything of the sort. I've spent the past three days wallowing in my apartment." Trista smiled kindly at Anna. "Now put a clip in that hair and let's go."

"But--"

"Clip now, talk later."

Anna did as she was told, gave the makeup bag back to Trista and donned her borrowed coat. Before they ran out the down, she jogged into the kitchen and grabbed the morning paper. For some reason, she figured it was best to have it with her.

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A/N: As always, reviews are greatly appreciated.


	2. Four Trains in Three Days

A/N: Hey guys! Guess what! Going back to school wasn't a total waste. I took the time while we were busy doing nothing to complete my chapter notes and now have also finished chapter two. Yay! Anyways. I also had time to watch the lovely, amazing movie on which this is based and realized that my Connor and Murphy are not nearly living up to their potential. I mean… their speech… it's so… mild! So in this chapter I am attempting to break the movie's record for most times the word fuck and its derivatives at 246 times. Enjoy!

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The train window was foggy with the breath of the sleeping passengers. Connor looked away, dismayed. He could no longer see out, not that there was anything much to see in the dark, but staring mindlessly out the window had given him an outlet for his sleepless lethargy. Murphy was sound asleep in the seat next to him and there was no getting out. He was stuck. He was stuck in his seat. He was stuck in his life. He was just stuck. The passenger in the seat behind him was snoring extremely loudly. Two seats up and across the aisle was another such snorer. Connor could feel their snoring closing in around him. After a full day stuck on trains, cooped up, unable to do anything about his situation, he was growing extremely anxious. "Fuck," Connor said to himself under his breath. "Fuck," he said again, a little louder. "Murph," he said softly. "Murph," and he hit him.

"What? What?" Murphy said groggily. "What the fuck, Con? I was asleep!"

"Lemme out."

"What the fuck?"

"Let me the fuck out!"

"A'right! Yer out! What the fuck is goin' on?!"

"Shh!" came a scolding from a nearby passenger. "You should be ashamed of yourselves, using such foul language!" she said and crossed herself.

Connor strode quickly and resolutely from the car, but Murphy turned back to the woman, pulled out his rosary, and crossed himself in return. Nodding apology, he followed his brother. The next car was Connor-less, but as he began to move on to the following car he was pulled into the tiny train bathroom. "Connor! Shit! What the fuck, man?!"

"I had ta get the fuck otta there. The fuckin' snoring and-- and-- fuckin'--" His speech deteriorated into a frustrated groan.

"Well, it wasn't my fuckin' idea ta get on three different fuckin' trains in one fuckin' day!"

"We had ta get out."

"Christ, Con, I know, but we rode ta fuckin' Helsinki and back before we went anywhere!"

"It was eighty fuckin' dollars each fer the trains we took. D'yeh think we can afford a hundred an' sixty fuckin' dollars? We don' have a hundred an' sixty fuckin' dollars! An' we had ta get otta Boston." He ran his hand through his hair. "Christ, I have ta get off this train."

"Yeah? Well, we've got another six fuckin' hours on 'ere, so get a fucking hold of yerself!"

"Fuck, Murph! I'm goin' crazy here!"

"Well, what the fuck d'yeh expect me ta do about it?!"

"Fuckin' 'ell. I don' know."

There was a quiet pause. "Where d'we get off, again?" Murphy asked.

"Albany."

"How the fuck does that make sense?"

"I don' know."

"We're goin' north… ta go south."

"I know." It grew quiet again. Connor ran his hand through his hair once more, sighing as he did so. "What am I goin' ta do?" He hit the sink with the heel of his hand and it shivered, uttering a low, gong-like sound in protest that hung heavily in the suffocating air. "How am I goin' ta… Christ, Murph. I can' believe she wrote it."

Murphy was silent, staring down at his feet. He parted his lips as if to speak, but thought better of it. He shook his head and looked up at his brother. There was nothing her could say.

"Next train's a whole tweny-four hours. When we get off, le's find somethin' hard ta get us through," said Connor, patting his brother on the shoulder as he exited the bathroom to return to his seat. Murphy only shook his head and followed.

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A/N: Sorry. I could only manage to use fuck 23 times. Only another 223 times to go. Review, please!


	3. The Things We Throw Away

A/N: Hello, all. This chapter took forever to write and is super long, so I hope you like it. The middle section _is_ a flashback, just in case you don't notice and are confused while reading. Review, please!

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"You wrote this?!" Anna almost yelled to Trista next to her.

"No!" Trista answered quickly, slightly appalled. "Well, yes. But I didn't publish it." She snatched the paper from Anna's hand and stuffed it in a trashcan as she walked. Anna froze by the can. "What?" said Trista, stopping and looking back at her.

"You threw it away," Anna stated as if it were a capital offense.

"Yes."

"Why did you throw it away?" Anna asked, horribly upset.

"I don't know. It's sort of… morbid to keep it. It's like pasting a dead person's obit on the fridge. I've never understood it. Throw it out and move on, I say. Life's too short."

Anna just stood with her mouth open as if in disgust. "I have to get another," she said, almost in tears, and sprinted across the street to a newsstand. "I need a paper!" she yelled frantically to the man sitting behind the counter.

"Anna!" Trista yelled as she found an opening in the stream of cars and followed Anna across the street. She grabbed the younger girl's arm and forced her to turn around. "Anna, what are you doing? They don't sell papers from three days ago."

"How do you know? You don't know. He could have one laying around in the back. He could!" She turned to the man. "Do you?"

"What?"

"Do you have a paper from three days ago in the back?"

"No, I don't have a fuckin' paper from three days ago lyin' around in the back! What are you crazy, lady?!"

"Where can I find one?"

"Anna!--" Trista tried, but was cut off as the man responded.

"What?"

"Where can I find a paper from three days ago. I need one. I need it! Do you understand? I'll do whatever, only I need a paper from three days ago!" Anna was grasping the counter in such earnest her hands were beginning to turn white.

"Anna!" Trista screamed at her, grabbing her hands and wrenching them off of the counter, pulling her to a safe distance from the stand. "Get a hold of yourself! You are not going to find a paper from three days ago! Not unless you are going to raid the imaginary land of Old-Paper-Ville and steal _their _three-day-old paper, causing widespread panic and an eventual civil war!" Trista purposefully overacted. Anna just stared at her. "It… it was a joke," Trista floundered.

Anna looked at her, betrayed. "It wasn't funny."

"Sorry."

There was silence for a moment before Anna decided to move past the joke. "Why did you have to throw it away?" she whispered despairingly.

"I… I don't know. I'm sorry. I didn't think. I just threw it away. It's a habit, Anna, a gut reaction. I don't keep things close to me that remind me of pain. I don't see why anyone does. But I shouldn't have thrown it away. Not everyone is like me. I didn't think. I'm sorry," Trista apologized. Anna said nothing, began to walk forward slowly. "So," Trista said after a moment, "I suppose you haven't seen any of the other newspapers, then?"

"What do you mean?"

"It's not in the _Tribune_, but…" Trista held up a finger, signaling for Anna to wait, before jogging back to the newsstand. She returned a moment later with a newspaper in hand, which she handed off to Anna. Trista crossed her arms, waiting for a reaction. The paper was a copy of _The Boston Globe_ and the headline at the bottom of the page read "Tribune retracts article, apologizes for Saints debacle."

Anna's eyebrows furrowed, then relaxed as her head popped up. "The wrong names?" Trista nodded. "Why would you write an article with the wrong names? I mean, if you were going to write an article at all, why would you--"

"I didn't."

"What?"

"I didn't."

"Yes, I heard that. I mean… okay… so what happened? And how did an article with the wrong names get published? Don't they normally check these things?"

"They do."

"So…"

"Walk with me, Anna," Trista said, steering Anna towards her apartment as she began her story. "It begins with a fight…"

"Okay, could we not be melodramatic and get to the point?" Anna interrupted.

"This from the girl who was desperate to buy a three-day-old newspaper?" Trista asked, hands on hips. "Look, do you want to hear the story or not?" Anna was silent, and Trista took this for assent. "Connor and I were in a fight…

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_Trista sat alone in her office, pouring over her article. Melanie had called in sick that morning, and Trista was glad of the solitude. She read the article over again as she had so many times before. It was a good article -- no -- more than good. It was a groundbreaking article, a front-page article, an award-winning article. But it was not the one she had been asked for. She had been asked for a commentary on a much-anticipated, new book. She had written her destruction. Again she read it over. It seemed as though she was reading it for the first time. Each time she read it she was amazed anew. It was as though someone else had written it through her and she was only now seeing the truth in it. She could not believe what she had penned. She could not fathom it._

_There it sat, poised and printed, ready to go: the truth about the MacManuses._

_She shoved it into the top drawer and turned to stare at the blank notebook that had been sitting underneath it. Her pen hovered above it, but she was unable to write anything. Then finally her hand was moving across the page, more swiftly and strongly than she ever could have imagined. She was once again possessed but this time by something much different. When she finally looked to see what she had written, she found, to her great surprise, that she could no more print what she saw before her than the article in the drawer. _

_Olivia MacManus_

_Jennifer MacManus_

_Henry MacManus_

_Gregory MacManus_

_Cara MacManus_

_Stephen MacManus_

_Molly MacManus_

_And there she stopped. Molly. It had been her mother's name. Slightly cliché, she knew, an Irishwoman named Molly, but at least she had not had red hair… Molly. That was right. The name of the mother she'd never known for the name of the child she'd never given a chance. That was right. That was exactly right._

_And then she began to cry._

_Trista sat, still despairing, at her desk. The paper before her ran with ink and tears. She wiped her eyes and tried to sober, but only fell back down onto the paper again. "Oh, Connor. What have I done?" she whispered to herself. "What have I done?"_

_Outside, she could hear a flurry of activity and a buzz of voices as had been going on for the past two weeks. Any time someone entered the office he was immediately assailed with a barrage of questions: Did you hear about the apartment? Did you hear about Andrew? Did you hear? Is there any new news? Most of the time the answers were three yeses and one no. Every now and then someone came back from a vacation or perhaps a maternity leave. And every_ _now and then some new piece of news floated in through the vents. But mostly the shuffle was all for nothing, nothing but the entertainment of office gossips._

_A knock at her office door made her jump in surprise and hastily wipe the tears from her face and shove the notebook in the drawer with her breakthrough article. "Come in," she called quickly. And he did. She almost gasped at the face she saw before her. Far from any she had expected, it was Connor._

"_You burned down Andrew's apartment."_

_Trista nodded. "What are you doing here?"_

_Connor stepped forward, scarcely breathing. "I came… because…" He stopped and looked down at her desk. "I came because I thought yeh might want me here," he said after a time, "and because I wanted ta be here."_

_There was silence between them for a long time before Trista invited him, "Will you… sit down?"_

_Connor rolled over the chair from behind Melanie's desk and sat across from Trista. "I… have been thinkin'," he began, "about what yeh said. It's all I __can__ think about." He watched Trista for a moment, trying to gauge her reaction. "I am… so sorry. I should have been there. I should have been there fer yeh. But I wasn't." He looked around the office nervously. "I can't say," he said when his gaze returned to Trista, "it's what I would have done or what I would have wanted. But I wasn't there. An' it was yer decision. An' I wish-- I just wish I had been there. And I just hope yeh can fergive me. Trista," he was whispering now, "please. Forgive me."_

_Trista shook her head and her eyes filled with tears. "You did not know. There is nothing to forgive."_

_They did not speak for another long period of time. Neither knew what to say. Then Connor spoke once more. "I know yeh don' agree with what Murphy and I--"_

"_Connor!" Trista jumped from her seat. He was greatly startled by the reaction. "Not here." And then he understood._

_Trista went to Turnbaum and told him an emergency had come up, and that she_ _was taking the rest of the day off. She didn't give Turnbaum a chance to ask questions, only flew out the door. Turnbaum didn't move for a moment, confused. He'd told Trista not to miss anymore work. He'd told her not to screw up again. He'd told her. But apparently she hadn't listened. Family emergency? He doubted it. But there was nothing he could do about it now. He picked up his phone and dialed. A stuffy-nosed woman answered, exhaustedly. "Hello?"_

"_Melanie, this is Turnbaum. Trista had a family emergency. I need you to come in."_

"_What? Mr. Turnbaum… sir… I--"_

"_Melanie, I need you to come in. Trust me, I'll make it worth your while." There was a sigh and an assent on the other end of the phone. Turnbaum slammed the phone onto the receiver. "Kenneth!" A head poke its way into the office. "Coffee. Now." The head nodded and retreated. "And tell Melanie to see me when she gets here!" Turnbaum called after it._

_Half an hour later, a disheveled Melanie was standing by the door of Turnbaum's office, apologizing for her appearance. "That's alright, Melanie. I don't need you to be pretty. I just need you to be here. Now," Turnbaum moved the conversation along, "I had Trista doing a book review. I need it for print. I need you to go into her desk, her files, whatever, and get it. If it's not finished, I need you to finish it. If--!" he stopped her before she could protest. "If you have not read the book, I need you to find someone who has. If you cannot find them, read an online summary and bullshit it. Melanie!" He leaned forward. "I am counting on you for this, do you understand? I know everyone in this office is sick of covering for Trista's shenanigans, but I need you to get this done for me, alright?" Melanie nodded. "Alright. Now go."_

_And Melanie went. She shuffled through the hall and around the cubicles and into the office she shared with Trista and turned on her computer. She checked her email and responded to a few inquiries, before grudgingly rising from her chair and crossing to Trista's desk. "Review. Review. Review," she whispered to herself. "Where are you, review?" She moved Trista's mouse across the pad. With a meek beep, the computer awoke. Sitting down in Trista's chair, she double clicked methodically on each folder in turn, beginning with the most probable and ending with the least. The review was nowhere to be found. Anna slumped down on the desk, her head in her hands and sighed, then coughed_ _spasmodically. When her coughing was under control, she rapped her fingers on the desk, humming quietly to herself. "Hmm, hmmm, hmmmmm………." she hummed as she opened the top right drawer of Trista's desk. "Well, well, well, here we--" She stopped and shook her head. "You are not a book review." Melanie scanned the paper, popping a cough drop as she did so. "Hmmm. Hunh. And… you are not good."_

_Melanie let the article fall to the desk and reached into the drawer to pull out the pad of paper that had been under it. The top page was a barely-legible mess of smeared ink. She flipped down the pages before it and scanned the contents. Nothing pertained to a book review. Note from the play review last week, to-do list for the night before, not book review. Not even any notes. Melanie set down the pad and pulled open the drawer to the left. In it sat a book, __the __book, unopened, and unread. Melanie picked it up, noted the spine, and opened to the first page. "'There are only three things in this world I hate more than you,' Tracy said, tears streaming freely down her face. 'Nail biters, tree trimmers, and kids who suck their thumbs!' She slammed the door and fell broken against it, her body shaking with her sobs." Melanie chuckled to herself, but kept her humor down for fear of another coughing fit. She flipped to a fresh page in Trista's tear-stained legal pad. "A tragedy so profound it brings laughter to the lips," Melanie wrote. "Okay, not the best wording, but we'll work on it," she said to herself, setting her pen down on the pad and reaching for the book. _

_Six hours later, Melanie sat slumped at Trista's desk, from which she had not had the energy to move. She was two-thirds through with the book, but it was a massive epic tragedy which had lost its comedic edge three pages in and become simply a dull space of endless words. Twice she had fallen asleep, and she had had to forsake her cold medicine for fear that sleep might overtake her again. She was desperately trying to stay awake through the end, when the phone's deafening ring made her jump out of her seat. "Yeah," she said, answering it._

"_Melanie," Turnbaum's voice said on the other end of the line. "I just got a call from Jerry Ender. Guess what he told me."_

"_The article's not in yet, I know. Look, no one in the office had read it, and for good reason, firstly, it's an unending bore and second it isn't available to the public yet. And there aren't any online summaries, because first, it's not worthy of a summary and second… _it's not available to the public yet!_ Turnbaum, I am reading the book, I am almost through. If you'll just give me--"_

"_We do not have any time. I do not care what the time period out of your mouth was going to be, but we do not have it. Do not throw your job out the window, Melanie. Get that article to Ender now!" And he was gone. Melanie set the phone down, about to pick up her book again, but under the legal pad Trista's article caught her eye._

"_Connor and Murphy MacManus," she said to herself, shaking her head. "Connor and Murphy, we are all extremely lucky I found this." She looked to the top of the page and found the title, "Saints of South Boston Revealed." On Trista's computer, she searched her files for the title and found the article. She scanned the document for the first time the Saints were named. One by one, she deleted the letter of the named and replaced them with the letters of two different names, Sean and Liam O'Flaherty. In the next sentence, Melanie found the name of the third Saint and deleted it in turn. "Mmmm… Fergus O'Flaherty," she said to herself and continued to change the names in the rest of the document. Moments later, she satisfactorily pressed print. _

_While waiting for the article to print, she picked up the phone and dialed Jerry Ender. "Ender? This is Melanie Avant. I know you're missing an article. I have good news. No, I don't have the article. I have something better for you."_

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"So… are you fired?" Anna asked, digesting Trista's story.

"Well, I haven't been to work since the article went to print, so if I wasn't going to be I bet I am now. Threw that dream away a long time ago. Then again I _have _given my boss an awful lot of trouble this past year and I still work there." Trista shrugged. "Is that really all you have to ask after that stunning story I just weaved before your eyes?"

Anna scowled at Trista's melodrama and shrugged. "What was I supposed to say?"

"I don't know, I just thought it would be something other than a considerate inquiry into my job status." There was silence for a moment as they walked. "Do you want a pretzel?"

"No, I'm fine."

"Well, I'm getting a pretzel." Trista jogged over to a pretzel stand and returned with her conquest in hand.

A short while later, Trista unlocked the door to her apartment and showed Anna in. "Well, this is it."

Anna nodded to herself. "It's nice."

"It's a sty. Don't flatter me. The bedroom's down the hall and to the left. Top left drawer of the dresser. You can borrow some pajamas. Go on and change."

When Anna returned from the bedroom in the borrowed pajamas, Trista was once again reading her magazine. Anna sat down awkwardly on the couch. "Well," Trista said, without looking up, "Do you want to watch TV, read a book? There are books over there."

"What? Oh!" Anna said, jumping up off the couch. "I'm fine."

"Don't be so awkward, Anna. You're going to be living here. Get used to the space and get used to me, because I'm sure as hell not going away and neither is your predicament."

"Oh. Okay…"

"So…" Trista said once again, finally looking up from her magazine. "Do you want anything? You're welcome to whatever's here."

"Can I have something to eat? I haven't eaten all day and I'm starving."

"Well, why didn't you get a pretzel?!"

As Trista rose and opened the fridge, naming off the things available to be eaten, Anna moved over to the trashcan slowly, hesitatingly, and threw her paper away.


	4. Something Important

A/N: So I suck and haven't posted in forever and I can't promise that I'll be posting again very soon. Sorry. I fail. But this chapter is like ten pages long, so that should make up for it… maybe… okay not quite, but… well, go on. Read it.

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The scent of orange chicken wafted languidly over from the Panda Express at the end of the food court. It was an industrial space, in the modern sort of fashion, filled only with the usual tables and trashcans. Across the way past the escalators, the food court bustled with activity. The walls were hollowed out and filled with chain restaurants whose glowing yellow lights emanated out into the room, enticing customers in. Back and forth the people walked with trays piled high with food. Which table, which table is best? But there, on the other side of the escalators, it was dark and cold and filled with bars that chained up the hollowed out might-have-been chain restaurants that just couldn't compete. Only Panda shined its warm buttery lights out into the great cavity in the earth that was the food court. And at a table against the wall meant for two people but occupied only by one, a dark figure sat waiting with a newspaper spread out before him.

As a young couple swept by, Chinese food in hand, to join the warm, glowing crowd on the other side of the escalators, the man reached a hand up and idle scratched his chin. A second later, he jerked his hand away and gazed for a moment at his fingers. He was unused to the feel of the short stubble that had covered his chin in the past days. He redirected his attention to the paper before him. World News. Iraq. Iraq. Pakistan. Iraq. France. UN. Iraq. Then a clamor caught his attention and he raised his head from the paper and removed his sunglasses.

Across the room, a flood of people was just beginning to make its way down the escalators and towards the wall of glass doors far down the end of the hallway. Somewhere up above, two sets of whoops and yells could be hear echoing through the open space. A few moments later, the hooligans came into view as they jumped excitedly down the flight of steps that flanked the escalators. By the time they reached the bottom, they had created sufficient noise to distract even the seasoned commuters from their stoic city walk. But the crowd continued on, splitting in the middle to swarm around the columns blocking their way and rejoining on the other side to flood out each and every one of the doors, leaving the tourists and the stragglers behind to be sucked in by the food court's buttery lights. But eventually even the stragglers found their confused way to their destinations and only the two hooligans were left milling around at the bottom of the escalators. Then the man by the Panda Express replaced his sunglasses, noisily folded up his paper, and lit a cigarette, before standing up from his table and moving forward.

"Chicago!"

"Chicago."

"New city. New life… C'mon, Con. Wha's goin' on here?"

"New city? New life?"

"Oh, yeah. Right. Damn yeh, new life! Damn you!"

"What the fuck are yeh pissin' at, Murph?!"

"Oh, fuck off."

"Fuckin' hell!" Connor exclaimed as he fell backwards into the body of an as-yet-unseen bystander. "Murph, look what you--" Connor stopped as the man he'd bumped into gripped his arms from behind. He was about the throw the man off when he spoke.

"Now, don' make a seen."

Connor stepped away and turned to face the man, Murphy stepping forward to his side.

"Fuck," came the expression of awe from the darker brother.

"Da?" Connor asked more sensibly. "What the fuckin' hell?"

"Yeh shaved off yer beard?"

"Aye. An' yer friend sold us out."

Connor turned away and ran a hand through his hair.

Murphy took a step forward. "Da…" he whispered, his tone conveying his meaning.

Da grumbled and sighed, stepping away from Murphy and towards his other son. "Connor--"

"Yer right. She sold us out. Le's go," Connor agreed and began a brisk walk toward the wall of door at the end of the corridor.

Murphy glanced at his father and then followed, trusting that the other man wouldn't be left behind. He jogged up to his brother. "Look, Con, he didn't--"

"Just leave it."

"Connor--"

"Leave it!" Connor yelled, stopping momentarily to emphasize his point before continuing on his way and bursting out the doors into the chilly wind of Chicago.

"Connor!" Murphy yelled pointedly as he emerged from the building moments later.

"What?!" Connor yelled back, spinning on his heal to confront his twin.

Murphy walked the rest of the distance between himself and his brother and quietly asked, "Where're yeh goin'?"

Connor chuckled, his anger extinguished. "I have no idea." Murphy's face too broke into a smile and he jestingly shoved his brother into one of the pillars separating the sidewalk from the train station. Connor gave a yell and went after Murphy who had moved away from his brother in an attempt to avoid his retaliation.

"Hey!" Murphy yelled as Connor tackled him. "Aye!"

"A'right, boys. Enough!" came the call as Da exited the train station to find his sons roughhousing.

The boys were quick to comply and found their father quickly, following him to a more remote area. "So what now?" Murphy asked, looking to the older man for an answer.

"Now…" said Da matter-of-factly, "we find the nearest Irish neighborhood."

"Right," said Murphy, looking between his father and brother. "How do we do that?"

Connor took a moment to respond. "Ask."

Again Murphy looked between his two companions, before spinning away from them. "Sir! Excuse me. Sir. Can yeh-- What the fuck?"

"Sir, is there a hotel near here? Somewhere, yeh know, clean, but not too pricy?" Connor stepped in.

"There's a Travelodge like nine blocks from here."

Twenty minutes later, Connor stood before the desk waiting in line to ask for a room. It had been a long and silent walk from the train station and his melancholy had returned. One thousand miles separated him from his old life, but if they wanted to find the Saints, they would. One thousand mile wasn't enough to stop them, just enough to delay it. And if that was all it was… what was the point of running anyways? God, why was this happening? They were the good guys. They were the good ones. They were. And if they were-- "Can I help you? Sir?"

"Hunh? Uh… yeah. I… need a room." Connor glanced back at Murphy, who was standing across the room watching him. "For two."

"Two Queens or a King?"

Connor chuckled. "Ah… Two Queens."

"Can I have your name?" Connor hesitated. "Sir? You name?"

"Oh, sorry. James Canon."

"ID?" Connor reached smoothly into his back pocket and found in his wallet the ID he used to avoid the authorities. "Thank you, Mr. Canon. And if there is anything we can do for you during your stay, please do not hesitate to ask."

"Actually, my friend and I, we're looking to go out tonight. Could you point us in the direction of a good bar?"

Nine hours later, Connor and Murphy were striding confidently down the street toward Michigan Avenue. "So are yeh goin' ta do the whole American thing again er what?" Murphy asked as they walked.

"Why would I do that again?"

"I don' know. I didn't know why yeh did it in the first place."

"Ta blend in. James Canon isn't Irish."

"Well yer James Canon again tonight."

"Well, I guess I am." There was silence for a moment before Connor accused, "So what're yeh gonna do? Just not talk at all?"

"I can do as well as you can." Connor just raised his eyebrows and continued forward. "I can!"

"Sure yeh can Tommy Deming, sure yeh can."

Inside the bar the boys spent a fair amount of time feeling out of place. Luckily it wasn't too long before they were joined by another odd man out, or rather, odd woman out. She sat down next to Connor and ordered a beer. Then she sat silently and sipped it. On Connor's other side, Murphy nudged him. "What?"

"Talk to her. That's what we're here for isn't it?"

Connor just looked at his brother, but finally decided to comply. "Hi," he said, turning to the girl.

"Hi," she responded dryly.

"I'm James."

"Cara."

"Pretty name."

"I'll tell my parents you think so."

"Hi, I'm Tommy, Tommy Deming," Murphy interjected.

"Hi," Cara said and went back to sipping her beer.

Murphy tapped his brother with his elbow to get his attention. "Switch with me," he whispered. Connor rose from his seat and let Murphy sit down next to Cara. "So are you from around here?"

"Yup."

"Really?"

"Yup."

"It just… didn't seem like it."

"Because I'm not being sociable?"

"Uh, yeah." Cara just nodded. "So."

"So."

"Why aren't yeh bein' social?"

"I don't like people."

"So why come to a bar?"

"I like beer."

Murphy laughed. "Can I buy you another?"

Cara gave him a sly smile. "What do you want?"

"What?"

"What do you want from me that makes you want to buy me a beer?"

Murphy shook his head. "Ah…"

"Well? Go ahead. Ask."

"Where's the Irish neighborhood in Chicago?"

"What?"

Murphy smiled. "Not what y'expected?"

Now Cara returned his smile. "Canaryville."

"Hmm…"

"What?"

"Interestin' name." Cara smirked and then burst into a peel of laughter. "What?!"

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry!"

"What?!"

Cara shook her head and finally managed through her laughter, "I have not idea!" Murphy chuckled and shook his head. In a moment, Cara's laughter had subsided and she just sat smiling at him. "I'm-- I'm sorry. It wasn't--"

"Yeh know, yer a lot more fun when yer relaxed."

Cara nodded and sobered slightly. "I probably am," she said quietly.

They were silent for a moment before Murphy glanced over his shoulder and sighed. Connor was sitting in a dark corner staring down into the bottom of yet another beer. Murphy turned back to Cara. "Well I, uh, hate ta interrogate yeh and run, but my friend there is… sorta a heartsick mess."

Cara nodded. "I can see that."

"Cara… I'd like ta see yeh again."

Cara took a sip of her beer and turned back to face Murphy. "I… have a boyfriend."

"Well, Cara, it was nice meetin' yeh." Murphy rose and walked over to where Connor sat in his booth and slid into the seat across from him. "Canaryville." Connor nodded. "Let's go."

"What's the hurry?"

"Nothin'. I don' know."

Connor sat in silence for a while. Then he chugged the rest of his beer. "Le's go."

"Wha--" But Murphy got up and followed him without finishing his sentence, thinking it better not to ask.

They were almost out the door when someone caught Murphy's arm. "Tommy," said a flustered Cara. "I've been trying to get your attention for like five minutes. Anyways. I… uh…. um… well is there any reason we can't be friends."

"No." Murphy said, falteringly.

"Well then… here," Cara said, shoving a folded up napkin into Murphy's hands. "Goodbye Tommy Deming." And with that, she was gone.

"Good job. Now yeh've got a stalker thinks yer someone yer not," Connor said as he began the walk back to the hotel.

"Yeh know what, Con? Yeh can just shut the fuck up because she's a nice girl and we haven't a friend in this whole fuckin' city. May come in handy, yeh know."

"Aye. New friends. Just what we need."

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Murphy said, stopping and turning to his brother. "Wake up Connor! It's time to move on. She fucked us. She fucking sold us out."

"Shut the fuck up!" Connor yelled, taking a swing at his brother.

"What the fuck?!" exclaimed Murphy, dodging Connor's blow.

"Don't fuckin' talk about her that way!"

"She fucking sold us out, Connor! Face the facts!" Murphy quieted, "She fucking sold us out."

Connor just looked at him. "I'm goin' fer a walk."

"Con--!" Murphy turned away from his brother and began walking back to the hotel. "Jesus, fucking Christ."

When he got back to the room he threw the key onto the table and flopped onto one of the beds. Da was sitting in a chair in the corner. "Murphy," Da said quietly from the corner.

"Canaryville," Murphy grumbled through the pillows.

"Murph."

"He went fer a walk."

"Murph."

"…What?"

"I have ta tell yeh somethin' important."

Murphy sat up grudgingly. "What is it?"

Da rose from his chair and stepped over to the bed. He dropped a paper in front of his son and stood waiting for him to read it.

Murphy slowly picked up the paper. "Teacher accused of abusing young boy. Upliftin'. What am I lookin' for?"

"Yeh'll know it when yeh see it."

Murphy paged through the paper, scanning the pages one by one. It wasn't long before he stopped, spread the paper before him, and sat motionless reading for a good amount of time before he looked up at his father. "She didn't do it."

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A/N: Review please!


	5. Defense

A/N: So this one's not as long, but I am posting. Yay! And another yay: I wrote six chapters yesterday including this one and the last one and I wrote one more today, so we're good to go for a while. Yay!

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"Why?"

"Oh, now, come on."

"Why?"

Trista leaned forward in her chair. "Because I'm too good and you know it." Turnbaum raised his eyebrows and crossed his arms across his chest. "It's true. Otherwise you'd've fired me a long time ago." Turnbaum just sat in the same position, unmoving, unblinking. Trista said no more. There was a lot more she could have said, anecdotes, examples, facts to prove her point. But he already knew everything she would say and she knew it. Saying those things would put her at his mercy, would put her in the place of begging for her job. And her whole strategy here was to convince him that he needed her, a fact she was sure he already knew. She wanted him to beg her to stay, and even though she knew it wouldn't happen exactly like that, a stoic agreement that the job was hers would do. He would keep his pride as an employer and she would keep her job. And everyone else would say that that was what happened, even though they were thinking she was irreplaceable to him. And that was true.

At last, Turnbaum took a deep breath, unfolded his arms and said, "You're right. Besides which, it wasn't your fault the article got published, and I'm not the type to take one person's mistakes out on another."

Trista smirked. "Since when?" she thought, but knew better than to say it.

Turnbaum pulled a post-it from a pad on his desk and jotted something down. "Your next assignment. I want this for Thursday."

"I'll have it for Wednesday." Trista rose from her seat, took the post-it, and exited the office. Outside all work stopped when she stepped through the door. Each and every worked looked up from his or her work, stopped talking, watched intently for which way she would go. To the door? or to her office? Trista took the long way around to her office just to make them sweat. The minute she shut the door behind her, she heard the room erupt into conversation, but she was faced with a greater silence than she'd just walked through outside.

Melanie looked up at Trista from her desk. "Staying or leaving?"

"Staying." Melanie nodded and looked down at her work. "And you're staying too?"

"I guess."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I'm 'on probation', but all he did was lay into me a little."

Trista moved from her position at the door to stick her post-it on her desk. She slipped her coat off and hung it on the back of her chair before walking around to stand in front of her desk. Arms crossed across her chest, she moved forward towards Melanie's desk until the other woman had no choice but to look up and ask, "What?"

"Why did you do it?"

Melanie shrugged. "I needed an article."

"So you chose to publish the identities of the Saints. But you changed the names in the article."

"Well I couldn't very well take the chance that you'd gotten the names right, now could I?"

"Couldn't you?"

"Could you? Could half the people in this city?"

"But why publish that article anyways if you didn't want the Saints to be exposed? Is it me? Did you want me to get fired?"

Melanie took a minute before she answered. "What would you have done if you'd seen that article in my desk? Would you have left it there with the chance that I might publish it?"

Melanie returned to her work and Trista to her desk. Five minutes later, Trista was researching her assignment and Melanie was sitting idly at her desk staring across the room at her. "Trista?"

"Hmm?" responded Trista absentmindedly.

"Were they the real names?"

Trista stopped and looked up. Melanie had proven herself. She was loyal to the Saints. She'd never say anything. So Trista said, "No. I just wrote the article and made up some names. I was… upset that I hadn't found out who they really were. I just… wanted… to write my big article."

Melanie nodded. "Ah."

"Melanie?" She looked up. "If I had known their real names… I would have published them."

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A/N: Review for another chapter!


	6. Canaryville

"Fifty Cents." Murphy dropped two quarters in the hand of the newspaper seller and moved on.

"'Ey! Murph! What's takin' yeh so long?"

"Nothin'. I was just lookin' at something'," he responded as he caught up to his brother and father. "So where're we goin'?"

"Uh…" Connor looked down at the sheet of paper in his hand, then up at the houses around him. "There," he said, pointing.

When Murphy knocked on the door of the house at the address they had been given, an old woman peeked out through the crack that the chain on the door allowed. "Can I help you?" she asked shakily.

"Uh… yeah. Wer in need of a place ta stay an' we heard yeh rent rooms."

The woman looked Murphy up and down and then closed the door to remove the chain. When she opened it again, the three were let in and led to the kitchen table to sit down. "My name's Mary O'Donnell. What're yours?"

"I'm Murphy MacManus. This is my brother Connor and our father."

"Why're you lookin' for some place to stay, Mr. MacManus?"

"We're new here, Mrs. O'Donnell."

"Just over on the boat then?"

"That's exactly right, Mrs. O'Donnell."

"How'd'ya hear about me?"

"Asked at the bars, same as any respectable Irishman."

Mary smiled a little. "You remind me o' someone I used to know, way back when I was young, ya know?" She leaned forward and took Murphy's hand. "I tell ya what. I've got a room open that I think will be just right fer you three. An' since you're just startin' out -- I know thing can be hard -- I'll take down the rent a bit for the first few months, so long as you keep all the rules, o' course. I like you, Mr. MacManus. You an' your family seem nice boys. But if you don' abide by the rules, you'll be out on yer behinds in the street."

"I understand, Mrs. O'Donnell. It's only what's right."

"You shouldn't be so quick t'agree to rules you haven't been told, sir. But I'll remedy that. Here's what I expect of ya while ya live under my roof. No violence an' I mean it. Now I wasn't born yesterday. I know everyone in these parts has a knife under his pillow and a gun in 'is closet and I don't care about any of that so long as ya don't bring your troubles home with you. Understand? And no drugs, not here. An' I'm not your mother, you can bring over whatever company you want to, but you've gotta keep two things in mind. You're responsible for anyone you bring in here an' they have to follow the same rules as anyone. And also there'll be none o' this sock on the door stuff. Nothin' funny. If I don't know what's going on, if I can believe you're just talking then I don't care what you're really doin' so long as I don't have ta hear about it. An' I know you young boys like to be out late at night. There's no curfew here, just as long as ya don't make a racket when ya come in. I don't wanna be woken up at all hours o' the night, see. This is a nice place to live as places round here go, if you're willin' ta follow the rules. Are ya willing to follow the rules, Mr. MacManus?"

It was towards Murphy that Mary was directing her gaze and her question and he squirmed under her attention. Murphy glanced to his brother at his right, lost in a fog of heartsickness, and to his father behind him, stoic as ever, and then back to Mary. "We are."

"Then come on and let me show you where you're gonna be livin'." Mary took them upstairs and led them into the empty apartment. The door opened into a relatively large room that was most likely meant to serve as a living/dining combo. In one corner was a little kitchenette with only the necessities divided from the rest of the room by a half wall of counters. The walls were more than dingy and the ceiling was spotted with stains that told of leaks when it rained, but it didn't smell. And that was something. On the left, the doors to the bedroom and bathroom stood open. Inside the outlook was just as bleak. In the bedroom two twin beds were pushed together against one wall and a chest of drawers stood across from them. Father down, in the bathroom, a rusty old tub provided the perfect compliment to the rickety old cabinet in which sat the sink. "I think I could spare another mattress to put in here for ya. I know it's not the Waldorf-Astoria, but…"

"It's a lot better than some places we've stayed along the road, Mrs. O'Donnell. Thank yeh."

"Well, you're welcome. I'll leave y'alone now to get acquainted with the place. I'll give you a week er so to come up with the rent. An' I'll have my son bring over another mattress," Mary told them as she shuffled out the door.

Murphy looked around, surveying the apartment. "Well look, Da. Yeh can have the room an' Connor an' I, we'll stay out here."

"Now, I don't know that that's--"

"It is necessary," Murphy cut his father off. "I insist that it is. Connor insists too, right Con?" He shoved his brother into a response.

"Right." Connor agreed hoarsely and sat down on the floor, leaning against the wall under the single window in the long, bleak wall.

Murphy glanced between his father and his brother and then chose to walk over to his brother. "Con," he said standing above him and looking down. "Connor."

"Hmm?" Connor asked without looking up from the spot he was staring at on the floor.

"Connor I found something important out today," Murphy began. When Connor didn't respond he continued. "Con, listen. It's…"

"What, Murph? What the fuck is it?" Connor lashed out, looking up at his brother. Murphy pulled the newspaper he'd bought out of his back pocket and threw it down into Connor's lap. Connor caught it and lifted it up. "What's this?"

"Yer miracle."

"What?"

"The one yeh've been secretly prayin' fer since we fuckin' left Boston. She's free. She's clear. Start celebratin'"

"What?!" Connor wasn't asking to clarify Murphy's words. He knew exactly who and what he meant, but it wasn't something one came to terms with quickly. He opened the paper violently, ripping it halfway down the center and scanned for something that would make Murphy's words true. Finally he found it, paused to scan through the article, and threw the paper down onto the floor, crushing it in his excitement. "So… they don't even know it was us. We're not suspected at all."

"No," said Murphy quietly.

"And Trista… Trista didn't-- She didn't do anythin'. She didn't rat us out. Fuck, Murph! Why aren't you excited?"

"I am. I am. I just…"

"D'article still got published," Da said quietly from the other side of the room.

"What?" Connor asked his father.

"D'article still got published, son. An' someone had ta publish it."

"What are yeh sayin'?" Connor stood as if defending the very discovery itself.

"I'm sayin'… why would she publish it in da first place?"

Connor just stared at his father. "She didn't do it."

"How d'yeh know dat?"

"Because I fuckin' know her!"

"A'right!" Murphy interjected.

Connor looked a this brother, betrayed. "You agree with him."

"No."

"Christ, Murph! Fuck!"

"Connor, I don' agree with him."

"Really? Then what d'yeh think?""

"I think…" Murphy struggled. "I think Trista wouldn't do that. An' I don' know how the article got published er why er anything', but I know Trista. An' yer right."

Connor turned away from his brother and ran his hands through his hair in frustration. "We didn't have ta leave. We didn' have ta… I could be… Trista…"

"It's in her name," his father said quietly.

"Stop!"

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A/N: Drop. Review! I'm dumb. I know.


	7. Small Talk

"Bus fare to New York. Going on a trip?"

"Jesus, Melanie! You scared me." Trista quickly closed the window she had been looking at and spun her chair around to face Melanie.

"Don't you have an article you could be researching? Or better yet writing?"

"What day is it, Mel?"

"Wednesday. And I hate being called Mel."

"And when did Turnbaum say he wanted the article for?"

"Thursday. Which means you turned it in today. I get it."

"No. I turned it in yesterday."

"Well, didn't he give you another assignment?"

"Printer."

Melanie strode over to where the printer sat on the file cabinet by the window. In the tray sat a crisp, clean sheet of paper imprinted with a perfect thousand words. "So what? You're the perfect little writer now? Was what he said to you really that bad?"

"What?"

"So why aren't you out getting your next assignment? Is Turnbaum at lunch? Oh! Are you doing this so he'll give you vacation time for that trip to New York?"

"Mel, I'm not turning my article in yet because I don't have to. I can turn it in this afternoon and it will still be early. But the minute I turn it in, Turnbaum's going to come at me with something else to do.--"

"Don't call me Mel."

"--So I'm just killing time right now."

"Well aren't you the master manipulator."

"Yes, I am."

"It's not like that's a good thing."

"Oh isn't it?"

"I could gossip this around the office. Aren't you worried about that?"

"You're not a gossip."

"How do you know?"

"Oh trust me. I know."

Melanie grabbed the paper out of the tray, crumpled it up, and threw it in the garbage next to her desk. "There. Did you know I was going to do that?"

Trista looked up from her computer where she had renewed her interest in the cost of bus tickets. "No… but do you feel better now?" Melanie plopped down into her chair and sulked. "If I print another copy are you going to be okay not ripping it to pieces?" Melanie sighed and turned her chair away in a huff. A few minutes later the printer made a whirring noise and spit out a fresh new sheet of paper. Melanie erupted from her seat, grabbed the paper from its tray, and slammed it down in front of Trista. Trista reached out and lifted the paper from her desk. "…It's crinkled," she said slowly.

"Look, just because you can whip out a front page article in your sleep doesn't mean you're any better than any of the rest of us."

"I never said--"

"And just because Turnbaum likes you doesn't make you any better either. And you shouldn't've--"

"Mel, I--!"

"And don't call me Mel!" Melanie screamed before quickly exiting the room and deliberately slamming the door behind her.

Trista shook her head and turned her attention back to her computer screen. They wouldn't have taken a bus. The busses were too sporadic. So a train. But where would they have gone?

A few minutes later, Trista's office door opened again. "So what'd ya do to Mel?" Seth asked with a jesting smile.

"Don't call her Mel," Trista responded drudgingly.

"Um?"

"I learned that recently. Right before she slammed the door." Trista exited the window on her computer and sat up straighter.

"Ah…" Seth strolled over to her desk and picked up the sheet of slightly crumpled paper there. "This your article?" Trista nodded. "Buying yourself some relaxing time?" Trista repeated the action. "Smart."

"Seth, do you think I act like I'm better than everyone else?" Trista asked despondently.

Seth handed the paper back to her and sat down on the edge of Trista's desk. "Yes."

"Yes?"

"You do act like you're better than everyone else, but I know it isn't true."

"Oh thanks."

"No, I mean… I know you don't think it."

"I don't."

Seth sighed. "Tris, ya come in late, ya leave early, you don't come in for days, ya don't write your articles, ya don't turn them in on time, and ya leave the mess for all of us to clean up. And you still keep your job."

"Yeah…" Trista crumpled up her article and threw it into the trashcan beside her desk. "But that's all going to be different now. I mean I'm off to a good start, so… I'll keep it up."

"Will you?"

Trista looked up into Seth's eyes. "No… probably not. Not once…"

"Not once what?"

"Nothing."

There was a moment of silence before Seth continued. "Well I guess you've got to take advantage of what you've got. I don't blame you. I mean I know that there have been some hard things for you… I'm not really sure what they are, but I know they've taken their toll. And hey, if Turnbaum had a crush on me I'd take advantage of it too."

"What?!" Trista said, shoving her chair back from her desk.

"What what?!"

"Turnbaum? Crush? Me?"

"Yeah!"

"_James Turnbaum?!"_

"Yes."

"Has a crush."

"Yes. On you."

"On m-- hey!"

"Why else would he let you keep your job after you give him so much trouble?"

"Um… because I am a good writer?!"

"No one's that good."

"Thanks…"

"Well… Sorry, but It's true."

"Mmf," was all Trista had to say. She scooted back to the desk and lay her head in her hands.

"What?"

"Nothing. I just actually thought I was a good writer is all," she said, her voice muffled by her arms.

"You are a good writer."

"Mmf."

Seth squirmed on the desk. "Hey, Trista."

"Hmmm?"

"Trista?"

"What?" Trista said, sitting up.

"I haven't seen that guy around much lately, the one you were dating."

"Yeah… he's… not around anymore."

"Ah…" Seth stood up. "So I have these tickets…"

"Seth, please."

"Okay. Sorry. Fine. It's just as well. I need this job."

"Oh, shut up!"

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A/N: Review please!


	8. Informal Interrogation

Trista slammed the door behind her as she entered her apartment and slugged off her purse and jacket, letting them fall to the floor. "Come on. Get up," she called to Anna on the couch. "We're going out."

"What?"

"We're going to a pub."

"What pub?"

"McGinty's. Now go change." Trista followed Anna into the bedroom and pushed her out of the way to grab a pair of jeans from her dresser. She pealed off her skirt and scooted into the jeans and found Anna staring at the closet.

"What kind of bar is this?"

"An Irish bar. Jeans. Shirt. Let's go."

Anna dove into the closet. "Why are we going to a bar?"

"To get some information."

"What information?"

"I don't know yet just--" Trista stopped dead as Anna emerged from the closet where she'd been dressing.

"What?"

"I hate you."

"What?"

"Those are my skinny jeans."

"Um?"

"My skinny jeans are loose on you." Anna smiled. Trista shook her head. "God, do I hate you."

"So this bar…"

"Let's go."

………………………………...

"…So yeh saw dem tree weeks ago? Really, cause some people have said dey were at Maureen's since den and I would've tought you'd've been dere. Weren't yeh invited? Are yeh on bad term wif Maureen den?"

"Trista," Anna whispered from behind her.

Trista turned around. "What?"

"What is going on here and what am I supposed to be doing?"

"Making nice?"

"I can't fake an Irish accent."

"You don't have to."

"So why are you?"

Trista hesitated. "That is a very long story. Just… I don't know. Find someone cute and flirt."

"I don't want to flirt."

"Why not? You're in my skinny jeans."

"I don't think it's right, you know… with Murphy and all."

"Anna, think of this as something you're doing _for_ Murphy."

"Trista--"

"Anna, shut up." Trista turn around again, but Joe Delaney had found another conversation and she was left with her beer and her whiney roommate.

"Trista," Patrick grabbed her attention before she could find another target to… chat with.

"Yeah."

"What's going on?"

"What d'yeh mean?"

"Why are you interrogating my customers?"

"I'm not int--"

"Yes. You are. What's going on here, Trista? Tell me or I'm going to have to…"

"Yer goin' ta have ta what?"

"Trista… what's going on."

"Nothin's goin' on, Patrick. I'm just talkin' ta my friends."

"You haven't been in here in weeks and now you suddenly show up and start asking a bunch of really strange questions. What is this about?"

"Dis is about notin'."

"You're askin' about Connor aren't you?"

"I'm not askin' around 'bout anyone," Trista insisted and turned away. She strode over to the door, grabbing Anna's wrist and telling her, "We're leaving," as she went.


	9. Love and Interference

A/N: Sorry I haven't updated, guys. Life's been crazy, but crazy good. So I really have no excuse I guess except that it's play season again and this musical is heavy on costumes. Enjoy.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

"I got a job!" Murphy called triumphantly as he skipped into the apartment.

"Good fer yeh, then," was Connor's sullen answer from across the room.

"Alright, Con. It's yer turn. Go out an' get 'em. You can do it. I know yeh can," Murphy said by way of pep talk.

"Not now Murph."

"When? When if not now? It's always not now. Not ever. When?" Murph urged, high on life and wanting his brother to join in the fun.

"You're right. Not ever."

"Fuck Connor. This isn't a joke, man," Murphy said, sobering quickly. "We can't just pick the pockets of our hits here. We haven't got any hits."

"Well… maybe we should find one."

"Well it's not as though they just spring up all over the place. Don' yeh think gettin' a job would just be easier."

"I have a job. I kill people."

"Oh, great Connor. Fuckin' great!"

"There are evil people in Chicago, too."

"Yeah. An' then they know we came here an' then they figure out i' was us because we ran away after th' article was published an' then what?"

"Fine. Then why don' we go back ta Boston?"

"Cause we just made a fuckin' life here!"

"I don't have a life here! I don't want a life here!"

"Well fuckin' tough, Con. Because wer here and wer not goin' anywhere. I had a girl too yeh know. I 'ad someone I left behind. That's what we do, Con. That's our job. That's the life we chose. Deal with it."

"Yeh had nothin'."

"I had Anna! An' I loved her."

"Loved? Loved? If yeh loved her, yeh'd still love 'er."

"I do."

"No, yeh don'."

"Just because I don' sit around here mopin' doesn't mean I don' still love her. I am jus' tryin' ta keep us alive here. The hospitality o' th' Irish can only go so far. We need money. We need jobs."

"Fuck off."

"No. I will not fuckin' fuck off, Connor. Not this time."

"Oh right, because yeh always fuck off."

"Yeah. I do always fuck off. An' I'm sick o' yer goddamn bullshit wallowin' in yer own horrible fuckin' misery."

"Christ!"

"I was in fucking love too!"

"How d'yeh know?! How d'yeh know it was love?"

"Yeh fuckin' doubt it?"

"Damn fucking right I doubt it. Yeh didn' love her. Yeh loved the freedom she gave yeh. Yeh loved 'er carefree nature. Yeh loved prancing all over the fuckin' city with dear fucking Anna. But yeh did _not fuckin' love her_!"

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

A/N: Oooooh! Power charged chapter. Review please!


	10. Maybe, Maybe Not

Maybe, Maybe Not

The bar down the street from Connor and Murphy's new apartment was called Myrna's Tavern. It was less than a little hole in the wall. It was tiny and packed with bodies. It was home.

It was late when Connor and Murphy stepped through its doors. Murphy had just gotten back from work and Connor had just finished moping around the house all day. Da had gone out that morning and was nowhere to be found. So out the boys went to drink themselves into a blissful stupor. When they entered the pub, they waded through the crowd and stepped up to the bar. There weren't any seats there, or anywhere as far as they could tell. So the boys stood leaning against the bar, beers in hand, surveying the scene.

"Are you Myrna?" Murphy asked the pretty girl at tending the bar.

The girl smiled cordially. "No. She is," she responded and inclined her head to a woman across the room. Through the smoke and the crowd, Murphy could see that she was a woman in her early thirties, with wild blonde hair and laughing eyes. The woman was making the rounds of the room and her easy attitude and sly wit were apparent in her talk with the customers. "I'm Jamie. What's your name?" Murphy smiled approvingly and moved away from the bar without responding to Jamie.

"Well, your friend's very single-minded," Jamie said, turning to Connor.

"Don't feel bad. He's just… an ass," he responded, turning back to his beer.

"Oh, I'm not insulted. It's not a big deal. It's just part of the job to make small talk with people who don't want to be talked to," she said brightly. "Can I get you another?" Connor nodded and she took his empty bottle from him. "I'm Jamie," she said as she handed him another.

"Connor." A seat opened up down the bar and he took it.

A few minutes later, after serving another patron, Jamie moved down the bar to where Connor no sat. "So, Connor," she said, leaning over the bar toward him, "I haven't seen you around here before. Are you new?"

"Not exactly. I've been around before."

"Ah. Must've been my night off," she said, crossing her arms under her and, in the process, pushing her breasts up and out of her shirt.

"What're yeh workin' fer tips?" Connor asked between swigs of beer.

"Sorry?"

"I thought yer job was ta make small talk with people not ta flirt 'em ta death," Connor said brazenly. "Gimme another."

"Hey, look you. I--"

"Piss off."

It wasn't that he was beginning to get buzzed or that she was trying way too hard, but that he was sick of everything that had to do with Chicago. He swore he would never eat pizza again. And he would never even think the name Oprah, let alone mention it. He looked up from his beer and found he could breathe again. Jamie was gone. Behind him he could hear Murphy boisterously courting his new target.

Another beer later, Murphy was back and flaunting a phone number. Connor's only response was, "Yeah, an' a lotta good that'll do yeh seein' as we haven't got a fucking phone."

"Hey, what the fuck's yer problem, anyways? What? Fucking what? It's not as if I loved her anyways, right?" Murphy attacked. "Face facts, Con. It's over between us an' them. We aren't goin' back and they aren't comin' here. It's done. Give up. Grow up. Move on."

"Murphy! Come tell the lads whacha tol' me!" Myrna called him over from across the room. Murphy grabbed his beer from Jamie and stalked off, heart lightening the farther he got from Connor.

………………………………...

"So where'd you learn an Irish accent, anyways?" Anna asked as they reentered Trista's apartment. "From Connor?"

Trista laughed. "God no. Can you imagine? Him giving me speech lessons? Me asking him for them?! No. No."

"Where then?" Anna asked, laughing too and moving into the kitchen to pour herself a glass of orange juice.

"Ireland," Trista said simply.

"Ireland! You've been there?! Oh, that's so exciting. I haven't been anywhere. Well, Italy, but that hardly counts. All I did was take care of my great grandmother all summer in the countryside and in the heat. It was… not exactly educational."

"How fun."

"Yeah. I believe that's the exact description I was about to use." Anna took a sip of her orange juice and sat down on the living room armchair. "So when were you in Ireland?"

"Uh… it was a college thing, you know… semester abroad and all," Trista replied, hiding only everything but that.

"Oh. So tell me about it. Where did you stay in Ireland? Which college were you studying at?"

Trista tapped her fingers on the counter. "Ah… Anna… it's kind of late. Why don't I tell you all about it… some other time."

"Okay, Tris. Night then."

Trista began the short walk to her bedroom pensively. "Night."

………………………………...

"I think we should go back ta Boston," Connor announced as his brother entered the apartment. "We have a home there. We have friends there. We have--"

"We can have friends here too, and a home," Murphy said sullenly, tossing his jacket onto his mattress.

"We can't have anythin' here. Besides. What good are we doin' here?"

"Yeh think there's no evil in this city? Well then I've got a surprise fer yeh. Myrna, my new contact, told me about this old boyfriend o' hers."

"Yeah? An' what about what yeh said about them findin' us out an' all?"

"Oh I wouldn't worry 'bout that, if I were you."

"Why not?"

"Cause we got ourselves a copycat."

………………………………...

Trista emerged from the bedroom rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. She stumbled into the kitchen and over to the coffee pot where she poured herself a cup of the coffee Anna made before the older woman woke every morning. After chugging about half of it, she set it back on the counter with a thud and rubbed her temples. "Headache?" Anna asked from the living room. A moan was Trista's only response. She picked up her cup of coffee and staggered into the living room. She set her coffee down on the coffee table and plopped down on the couch next to Anna. "What happened to miss upbeat?"

"Miss upbeat got hit by the world today. I'm Atlas from now on."

"What?" Anna asked, not understanding the allusion. She sat up straighter on the couch and took a sip of her own coffee, then pulled her blanket closer about her as she shivered.

"Never mind. I got hit by the world."

"Are you sure you didn't get hit by some tequila?"

"No…" Trista said pointedly, grabbing the other end of Anna's blanket and pulling it up about her shoulders. "I don't drink tequila and I can surely hold my liquor."

"Hey. Get your own blanket," Anna complained, pulling the blanket sharply toward her.

"This_ is _my blanket." Trista pulled it back.

"Fine," Anna said, relinquishing her half and rising from the couch. "I'll just get a sweater."

"It's my sweater, too!" Trista called.

"So what?" Anna asked as she reentered the room sporting the aforementioned sweater. "Do you want me to move out?"

"Ugh!" Trista exaggerated in a fit of overwhelming upset.

Anna sat down timidly next to Trista, who pulled her blanket closer about her. "What's up?"

"I don't know. I don't know what I'm doing."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know what I'm doing, trying to go on with this, trying to find them. They're too smart to be found." Trista was crying silent tears, but didn't seem to notice. "But I mean they have to know that the article had the wrong names in it. It's been all over the country. It's not as thought they don't have the number. It's not as thought they couldn't call."

Anna was quiet for a moment, unused to being the strong one. "Maybe… they don't have the money," she finally stuttered. "It is long distance."

"Anna, they aren't _that_ poor. They call their mother in Ireland," Trista rebuked.

"Oh…"

"They could call and tell us where they are. The only reason not to is that they don't want us to know," Trista said, falling into her pit of despair again.

"Maybe they're just laying low," Anna offered, wanting to be of more service to Trista, who had been so good to her, but not knowing in the slightest how.

"Maybe." Trista shook her head. "Maybe not."

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A/N: Lalalalala! Two days in a row! Look at me! Review, please!


	11. Staying

Maybe, Maybe Not

"Chicago!" Trista shouted as she burst through the door.

"What are you doing home from work?! And what are you shouting about?" Anna asked, sitting up from her usual position on the couch where she was flipping through the channels even though she already knew for certain absolutely nothing was on.

"I quit. And I'm going to Chicago! _We're_ going to Chicago," Trista yelled exuberantly as she flung off her coat.

"Chicago?!" Anna jumped up from the couch. "Wait. What?! You quit?!"

"I quit," Trista affirmed. "I had to quit to go to Chicago."

"Now back up a minute. Why are you going to Chicago?"

"Now don't be jealous. You're going too," she said, patronizingly.

"What?! No, I'm not. Why would I--"

"Jesus, Anna, don't you _ever_ read the papers?!" Trista exclaimed. "They had a hit. They're in Chicago. They're calling it a copycat."

"What?" Trista shoved a paper in her face. "The Chicago Copycat," Anna read aloud. "What is this?"

"Keep reading."

"Tuesday. Thirty-eight-year-old Eddie Bartha was murdered late last night in the Chicago area called Back of the Yards. The neighborhood is infamous for its dangerous streets and such a killing would normally not warrant extended attention. This case, however, is far from normal."

Trista ripped the paper from Anna's hands and skipped ahead. "The victim sported all the signs we in Boston have instinctively come to associate with the Saints. It seems unreal that just a few short weeks ago, we thought the Saints had finally been found out and now not only have they not been found out, but they have their very own copy cat killer. Yadda yadda… Oh, and then they say listen, listen… Uh… So hang on to your hats, good citizens, because the disease is spreading." Trista laughed. "The disease is spreading. It's funny because half --no -- more than half of this city has been caught up in the disease from the very beginning. Anyways, so get packing!"

"I don't have anything to pack. I've been wearing your clothes for the past month!" Anna said, catching Trista by the arm before she could retreat into the bedroom.

"Oh," Trista said, only momentarily phased. "Well, then I'll pack. You… you go online and get plane tickets."

"I can't afford a plane ticket," Anna called Trista back. "I can't afford food. I've been living at your mercy, Trista. I can't… I'm-- I--"

"Anna, really. Don't worry about it," said Trista, finally making her beeline for the bedroom successfully. Anna followed her to hear her muffled voice from the closet telling her, "I love Murphy. He's like my brother. And he loves you so now you're my sister." Trista emerged with a heap of cloth in her arms. "And I'm going to take care of you just like any sister. Now help me figure what to pack."

"But I don't want to be taken care of," Anna protested, throwing the sweater Trista had shoved at her back onto the bed. "Not like this." She sat down next to the sweater she had forsaken and picked it up gingerly, twisting it between her fretful hands. "I don't want to be no one and live in the shadows and mooch off of your generosity. I'm living a borrowed life and I can't do that. I can't do _this_." She gestured to the room around her.

"Anna… what are you--"

"I'm… not going," she cut Trista off.

Trista stopped what she was doing, setting down the pajamas she had just taken from the dresser. "What do you mean you're not going?"


	12. Taking Control

Anna sighed as she slammed the car door and dropped the keys into her coat pocket

Anna sighed as she slammed the car door and dropped the keys into her coat pocket. The trip back from the airport had been a lonely one. Trista had given her her car and the apartment for the few months that were left on the lease. She'd left some of her old clothes and stocked the fridge with food and paid the bills in advance. Anna couldn't believe it. No one did this, not even her family. And they were in the mafia. As she heard it, the mafia took care of their own. She opened the door to the apartment complex and click clacked up the steps in her patent leather pumps. The door to what she supposed was now her apartment was unlocked and she realized that she and Trista must have forgotten to lock it in their rush to get out. They were, as any true young Bostonian women or women in general would be, in a bit of a rush as they walked out the door, but only a bit of a rush and Anna mentally kicked herself for such a stupid accident. But she was happy to find as she entered, the apartment looked to be intact.

She dropped her coat on the chair by the door as Trista had done so many times before, wandered into the kitchen, and straight to the freezer to pull out a pint of chocolate denial. With her ice cream and the spoon she grabbed from the drawer to the right of the refrigerator, she made camp on the couch, where she could be found for the next two weeks without fail.

She hadn't gone. Of course, she hadn't gone. How could she have? A fugitive from her own family, living on borrowed... everything? So now she spent her days sulking and waiting for Trista to call. The older woman had, of course, promised to do this firstly because in the short time they'd lived together, Trista and Anna had become quite close, and secondly because if Anna was adamant about not accompanying Trista, she was even more adamant about living the trip vicariously through her, especially when it came to the finding of the MacManus brothers. Anna had far from given up on Murphy. She had, after all, exiled herself from her family for him, an unthinkable deed for a girl like her. Indeed, a year ago she never would have imagined her life could be what it had become. But she had chosen its course, and she did not regret it.

Regrets were useless anyways. She had the present, little as it was. She had her health and her relative freedom, but she began to wonder if she'd really gone through all of -- everything -- to sit in an apartment all day doing crossword puzzles. And the answer was no. She'd gone through all of that for Murphy, hadn't she? But now he was gone and the likelihood was he wasn't coming back. And if she ever wanted to see him again she was going to have to get there on her own. And it occurred to her that if she wanted to continue living in this apartment and -- well, living -- she'd have to do that on her own too. So it was a fortnight after she'd dropped Trista off a the airport that she decided to go out.

There were butterflies in her stomach, but she walked with a purpose out the door -- even though she had no idea where she was going. Her father hadn't come after her. And he surely could have found her if he'd tried. It was a good sign, just enough of a good sign to get her out the door but not enough of a good sign to quell her fears completely. She was wearing Trista's skinny jeans and a blouse that was only slightly too big for her, but which was mostly hidden anyways under a trench. She felt pretty good about herself and that was on purpose. She needed the extra spring in her step to keep her going. She'd had Trista cut her hair before leaving, imagining it was what she'd have to do if she were in witness protection. Now her smile widened as her heals clicked on the sidewalk and her bob bounced with each step. She inhaled deeply. Somehow fresh air wasn't quite as fresh coming through open windows.

Anna looked around and suddenly she couldn't breathe. There was the building her uncle lived in. Down the street was her cousin's fiancée's house. How had she gotten here? How had she gotten so far? She spun around and walked in the other direction, the only idea in her head: South. South. South.

Two hours later after a subway ride and a lot of wandering, Anna marched down Bowen Street optimistically. She wondered why she hadn't thought of Becca before. She'd thought of everything else. Staying with a friend was rather out of the question, but Becca was a little more than a friend. She was more like a sister, Anna supposed. They'd been roommates in college and senior year shared an apartment. Becca was from Oregon and had given up her comfort zone to come out east for college. So now she was paying off student loans, living in a hell-hole apartment, and loving every minute of it. Anna thought it was because Becca had made her own decisions. Her parents weren't around to help her out, but she never asked for help from them and their being thousands of miles away had never bothered her a bit, not because she didn't love them and miss them, but rather because she did. She'd been very close with her family and it'd been a hell of a thing for her to come all the way she did on her own. But that was the best thing about it, and Anna thought she was beginning to understand why.

First semester of freshman year, her only questions had had to do with how exactly Becca planned on making enough money to keep her afloat once she'd graduated and Becca had always responded that she didn't know. But she'd said it with a smile and confidence and ease in her voice and Anna had always had to just furrow her pretty little eyebrows and figure she would wait and see. Somehow things always went right for Becca. Whether this was because she had some brilliant good luck or because she made it go right, Anna didn't know, but she hoped it was because she'd made it go right. Anna thought she could do that, if she tried, but she'd never had the best of luck. And perhaps if it was something Becca did, if she made her own luck, perhaps she could teach Anna to do the same thing.

All these things rumbled through Anna's head as she jogged up the steps and pressed the button next to Becca's name. No answer came, so she rang again. It was a long time before Anna gave up ringing and kicked herself for her stupidity. Part of Becca's financial plan was having a job, where she was invariably working at this time of day. Anna folded her arms and hunched over, mentally drawing inward, feeling a bit scared and rather alone. She turned her back to the door and looked down the street. If only Murphy would suddenly appear and offer to walk her home. But he wouldn't. She was on her own. And then, with a stubborn resolution and a sigh, she sat down on the step to wait.

It was a great surprise for Becca when she came home to be greeted by lovely little Anna sitting on the steps waiting for her. But Anna wasn't so lovely at the moment and she didn't seem quite so little anymore either, and Becca knew immediately that she hadn't dropped by to chat. "What's going on?" she asked, and Anna knew no small talk was necessary.

"I ran away from home." Becca didn't flinch at the question or wonder at what it meant. She knew how constricting Anna's life was, and she also knew that to her family 18 didn't mean anything but that you could buy cigarettes. "My father's in the mob."

Becca turned away from Anna and opened the door. "Time to go upstairs."

Hours later, after she had explained the entire situation, omitting nothing but Murphy's status as a Saint, Anna asked, "So. Can you teach me?"

And Becca knew what she meant. "Well. I've got some good news and some bad news. The bad news is that I don't make my own luck." Anna's face fell. "The good news is that I don't believe in luck."

"So…?"

"You know how you always hated it when I was so… upbeat in college?" Anna smiled and nodded. "Well, I was just always confident that things would work out. And that's why they did. I'm one of those crazy people who thinks that if you know in your heart this is the right path for you, you should walk down it. And since you can't see into the future, you just have to believe that it will turn out alright. If it's really the right thing for you, that shouldn't be too hard. Because if it's really the right thing for you, then everything will work out. The universe will make sure of it."

Anna just looked at her. "Man, you _are _crazy."

Anna stayed over at Becca's that night. By the time she woke up in the morning, Becca had gone to work, but she had no doubts about what she was going to do. She and Becca had come up with a plan the night before, and the fact that Becca thought it would work made Anna believe in it like she believed in nothing else. So Anna wasted no time in getting up and getting dressed, not in her own clothes -- if you would call Trista's hand-me-downs her clothes -- but in an outfit Becca had laid out for her. She would need it for what she was about to do.

It wasn't a complicated plan, or hard, but it was something Anna never would have had the courage to do herself, as much as she knew it was necessary. So when she stepped out the door that morning, she stopped being Anna and started being Becca. For Becca this would be no big thing. For Becca, this would be a piece of cake. And that mantra worked for Anna. It worked all the way to the subway and all the way north. It worked all the way into the office building and all the way to the front desk. It worked all the way up the elevator to the office. And then it stopped working. It stopped working when the secretary asked her name. "Anna Della Rocco," she said and was lead into the office.

"Anna Della Rocco," the secretary announced, and she shut the door.

Anna sat down a the bidding of the man in the desk. "I'm here because… I need a job."

"Well that is why most people come to a temp agency."


	13. Connor's Girl

It was sunny, but cool when Trista stepped out of the airport, her bags in tow

A/N: Okay guys! I have been writing up a storm. So now I can finally set all to rights again. It'll go the way it always has. You review, I post. Equal trade off. Yay! Enjoy.

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It was sunny, but cool when Trista stepped out of the airport, her bags in tow. A gust of wind hit her and her hand flew up to press her hat to her head. She smiled. This was going to be good. There was a spring in her step as she walked to her hotel and when the bellhop took her bags, she could hardly contain herself from skipping up the stairs to her room. But she and the bellman took the elevator all the way up and sped down the hall to the room she'd reserved in such a hurry. It was a perfect room. It was a perfect hotel. It had been a perfect flight. All in all, it was good. Trista tipped the bellhop and flopped down on the bed. The minute she heard the door close, she was asleep… but with a smile on her lips.

………………………………...

When she woke up it was dark. It probably would have been wiser not to sleep through the day, but Trista was too happy to be worried about little things like that. She unpacked, dressed in fresh clothing, and decided to go for a walk. It was to the lakeside that she walked and looking out over it in the dark, she decided she liked Chicago, with or without the MacManus brothers, though she supposed the city wouldn't be too happy to have an even higher crime rate knocking at its door. The lights from the buildings shone brightly in the water, fuzzy and unfocused from the ripples. And there were lights in Trista's eyes, too. She'd done her research and found that the internet was a wonderful thing. She had a pretty good idea of how to find the MacManuses, because she had a pretty good idea of where to look. And the next morning Trista was going to get up bright and early and go find them. Alright, not that early. Trista knew she wouldn't have very much luck finding the brothers early in the morning. They'd be far more likely to be out at night. Trista was confident she would find Connor and then everything would be alright. Then, everything would be alright.

………………………………...

Trista had thought it would be a quick search to find the MacManuses, but she'd gone to four bars already and there was no sign of them. Each time she'd asked the barkeep if he or she knew the brothers and each time she'd been disappointed. She began to wonder if they'd come to Chicago after all. And then a second thought struck her: what if they were using false names? Then how was she ever supposed to find them? What if they had given up drinking?! A panic struck for just a moment before she realized she was getting ahead of herself -- and being more than a bit ridiculous. If these things were true, _if_, she couldn't do anything about them, but in the meanwhile she was just going to have to keep looking.

And so she marched on.

At the fifth bar, Trista again received only negative answers to her questions, and it came into her mind to get a beer and take a break. And she almost did. But what would be the point of that? So she could sit and drink alone and wallow n the difficulty of her task? It actually sounded rather like her…

But she stood from her stool and marched resolutely out the door.

By the time she got to the sixth bar, Trista was regretting not getting the beer at the fifth. So she slumped down in a stool and decided that no matter what she was having one here. When the girl at the counter came over, she ordered before asking her question, a question that was somehow seeming less and less important. "And, hey, have you got anything to eat?" she asked before the girl could get away.

"We've got pretzels," the girl offered with a weak smile and pulled over a basket of them that had been sitting on the other end of the counter. Trista looked at them, sighed, and dug in. The girl brought her beer and she took a swig, then slumped over on the counter with her head in her hand. The girl hung around a bit as though she felt like she should say something but didn't know what to say. Trista let her try to find her words, but eventually the girl walked away, saved by a customer at the other end of the bar.

Behind her, a raucous went up and Trista turn to see what-- "Murphy!"

Across the room, Murphy over to the bar, having heard his name called, and promptly dropped Myrna, who was leaning flirtatiously on his shoulder. Myrna stumbled backwards and by the time she caught her balance, Murphy was halfway across the room. In another second, he was in front of Trista and she had hopped off of her school and into his arms. Murphy squeezed Trista until she couldn't breathe and lifted her up and spun her around. When she was back on the ground, she pulled away, and he kissed her on the cheek and smiled as broadly as his lips would permit. "Trista, what're yeh doin' here?!" he exclaimed, but then saw the tears forming in her eyes and though there was a smile on her lips, he reacted without thinking. "What's the matter?" he asked, his tone serious, but Trista only shook her head and laughed and buried her head in his shoulder and he new that everything was alright.

He was about to put an arm around her again, but before he could react, he saw something -- someone -- out of the corner of his eye. He turned to look at Myrna and opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. He was too busy reeling from the sting of Myrna's hand on his cheek. She stood with her hands on her hips and he fumbled for a minute. "No, no. Myrna, this is Trista. This is Connor's girl!"

"Connor's girl, eh?" Myrna challenged. "Doesn't look like Connor's type to me. Too... chipper."

"Chipper?" Trista put in, her tears now gone and her brows slightly furrowed.

Murphy turned to her a little, "She's just--" but then gestured and gave up.

"Why's she here and not with Connor anyways?" Myrna challenged again.

"Because she just got in from--" Now Murphy turned back to Trista. "What _are_ yeh doin' here?"

"I came to find you."

"She came--" But Myrna was gone, and Murphy was left to stared after her.

"Ah, Murph." Trista piped up from behind him, and he remembered where he was. "Where's Connor?" she asked when he turned back around.

"Probably at home sulkin'."

"At home-- What's happened?"

Murphy laughed a little laugh told her as though he was telling a secret, "He had ta leave _you_."

Trista smiled a sort of sad smile and a pause came over her. "Where is he?" she asked after a moment.

"I'll take yeh t' him. I wan' ta see his face."

Murphy lead her from the bar down the street to the building that housed their apartment, but before they entered he pause to warn her. "Now, just don't be alarmed by what you see."

Trista smiled. "After all I've seen with you guys do you really think I'm going to be alarmed by anything?"

Murphy did not respond but turned and lead her up to their door. He opened the door slowly to reveal the dingy room that was their home. Da was sitting in the corner reading the paper, but Connor was no where to be found. Da raised his eyebrows as Trista entered behind Murphy, but did not say anything. Murphy glanced about the room and then back to his father, who, knowing for whom Murphy was looking, pointed to the door to the bedroom. Murphy strode over to it and knocked. Trista was a few steps behind him, thrown off by the staring man in the corner even more than by the knocking. There was no response from inside the room, so Murphy opened the door quietly and agonizingly slowly. "Connor?" he asked softly when he had opened the door enough to see the form of his brother hunched over on the edge of the bed staring out the window.

"Wha'd'yeh want, Murph?" Connor said, and Trista could hear the despair in his voice.

"Is that--?" she whispered very softly to Murphy, making sure that Connor couldn't hear.

"He's been like that since…" Murphy whispered equally as quietly, trailing off at the end. He already knew he'd communicated all he needed to. Then he shook his head and turned away.

Now Trista was standing in the doorway alone, understanding why Murphy had warned her before they'd entered. She couldn't imagine… She stood there for a long moment, and a tear rolled down her cheek. Of course, she would not have wanted to come in and see him having a spectacular life without her, but she had assumed that he would have made the best of it. She'd never thought for a second that he would have taken it so badly. Looking at him now, like this, she hated herself all over again for ever writing that article.

Connor rose from the bed and turn to face the door. "Murph, wha'd'yeh--" There was a second's pause which to Trista seemed longer than the span of her life, before he said, "Trista…" and his voice was quiet and broke over the first syllable, "Oh my God, Trista!" and his excitement rose, and a smile came to his face, and he ran forward to take her in his arms. It took Trista a minute to recover from the shock of seeing him as he was and she was far slower hug him back. He pressed her head to his shoulder with one arm, the other wrapped tightly about her waist, and more tears streamed from her eyes, but these from happiness. She hugged him tighter, her fingers splayed out and digging into the flesh of his back through his shirt. He was shaking a little with emotion, but Trista thought she must be too. Connor lifted his head from where it had been buried in Trista's hair and pulled away from her just enough to kiss her deeply enough to make up for all of the time he'd spent not kissing her. Then he pulled her back into a hug and look over her shoulder at his brother and father, with an indescribable look in his eyes. Murphy gave him a smile and sauntered out the door. But Da only stared at Connor with hooded eyes for such a long time that it made Connor's heart drop a little bit inside him. And then he went back to reading the paper, as though nothing had happened at all.

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A/N: Remember to Review! XD


	14. Morningtime

Connor pulled away from Trista

A/N: I totally didn't hold up my end of the bargain guys. (It's just that Wednesday I had an awards ceremony and Thursday a job interview and I saw Prince Caspian at midnight on Friday and a slew of people came over Friday night and the seamstress came with my last minute alterations for my dress because PROM was on Saturday and I only woke up at like 3 in the afternoon today because… it was prom…) I apologize. I will post two chapters today to make up for it. I will love you forever if you review them both! (By the way, Prince Caspian ROCKS!)

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Connor pulled away from Trista. "Le's go out."

"What--?" Trista shook her head, a puzzled look on her face. This had changed. Never before would Connor have been at all shy about hanging out around his father… or closed up in the bedroom, for that matter. But he didn't let her think too hard about it.

"Where are yeh staying?" he asked.

"The Palmer House."

"Well, well, well. Aren't we fancy?"

"Yeah, yeah." Trista smiled. "Well, I figured it's a joyous occasion, so I'd splurge." Connor smiled down at her and took her hand and led her out the door. But before he closed the door behind them, he shot a long look at his father behind them, making sure he saw.

The whole way to the Palmer House they didn't say anything. There was far too much to say to actually speak. Neither knew where to start and if they did start they were each afraid it would take them into different areas they weren't too keen on discussing, not to mention the areas they needed and wanted to discuss but weren't willing to discuss in public. So the air of Chicago was filled with a thousand sights and smells and noises and thoughts unsaid. But Trista and Connor were not consumed by the unspoken thoughts, as most would be upon entering such a situation. Connor and Trista were filled with nothing but peace inside of themselves, because whatever had to be said each knew that it would all turn out right. Because Trista had come all this way for Connor and Connor believed that she hadn't written the article. And all of the other bad things that had once been in the past had melted away, for they had all been forgiven.

So it was with a little reluctance that the couple entered Trista's hotel room, knowing that now the comfortable silence now must give way to words and all the horrid mess they bring into the room. Trista slipped her key into the slot on the door handle and the light turned green an they were let in. She dropped her bag and her key on the dresser and sat down on the edge of the bed, looking up at Connor with innocent and expectant eyes. Connor stood in front of her looking down. "So there's really no escapin' this, eh?" And that was the end of it. Trista's eyes were no longer innocent and there was no more comfortable silence. Trista shook her head, and Connor sat down. "It's alright. I know yeh didn't write the article."

Trista shook her head. "Oh no. I wrote it. I just didn't… I didn't publish it."

"Yeh wrote it?"

"I'm-- It was-- God, I'm sorry. It was so stupid. Of course I shouldn't have written it. I kick myself everyday for even thinking the first word of it. I just-- I just--"

Connor's looked shushed her. She stilled and waited for him to speak. When he did, it was not what she expected. "I love you," he said and kissed her.

"I… love you, too," she said when he pulled away.

They stared at each other for a few seconds, then attacked. Lips on lips, tongues on tongues, hands… not on hands. Trista moaned as Connor pulled away from her. "The rest o' this can wait, enh?" he asked with a breathless nod. And Trista responded with a more adamant one.

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The next morning, Trista woke to the sun shining merrily through the window and Connor sitting in the desk chair watching her. He had a contented smile on his face and a cup of coffee in his hand. When he saw her wake, and meet his gaze, he stood and walked to the edge of the bed, holding out the coffee to her. "For me?" she asked, sitting up and leaning back against the pillows. He nodded and kissed her lightly as she took the coffee. There was no need for passion and rushed kisses now. They would have plenty of time for those things and more. Now it was morning. The sun was up and the world was bright. Everything was alright.

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A/N: Review?


	15. Filial Obligation

Connor let the door slam shut behind him, clasped his hands in front of him, caught his brother's gaze

Connor let the door slam shut behind him, clasped his hands in front of him, caught his brother's gaze. "Praise the Lord!" Murphy exclaimed, jumping up from where he sat. "Now, we can get back t' everithin' an' get on with it all."

Connor smiled at his brother. "Is that th' only reason yeh wan'er back?" he joked.

"No, but it certainly is a big plus now, in'i'?"

Connor's face relaxed a bit and his smile faded. "Hey," he said, approaching his brother, "I'm sorry Anna…"

Murphy shook his head. "Connor, Anna an' I were never wha' you an' Trista were. It's better this way, anyways."

Connor looked at his brother doubtfully. "Are yeh sure abou' tha', Murph?"

Murphy smiled a good-natured smile. "Yeh said it yerself, Con. I didn' love 'er. An' I've got Myrna now ta be dealin' with. Con. Don' go lookin' fer somethin' bad ta dwell on. Face it. Thin's er good. Let 'em be good. We deserve i', don' weh?"

"Aye, that we do."

Murphy looked at his brother for a moment longer, then turned away and said, "Da's in there," pointing to the bedroom. He flopped back down on his bed and lit a cigarette.

Connor knew that this was Murphy's way of saying he should talk to his father, but he hadn't a clue why, and unless it was more congratulations, Connor didn't particularly think he wanted to hear it. Nonetheless, he stepped up to the door, which was open a crack and peeked inside. "Da?" He slid the door open, so he could be seen silhouetted in the doorway, just as his father could bee seen silhouette against the window. "What's goin' on?" he asked, stepping into the room. "We got a hit?"

His father looked away from the window at long last and plucked the cigar from his mouth. "No, we haven't got a hit, son." Connor sat down on the misfortunate chair across the room from the bed. His father stood and walked around to the other side of the bed. He sat down again and looked at Connor with a heavy look. "Are yeh sure yeh know what yer doin' here, son?"

"What?"

"Are yeh sure yeh know what yer gettin' into wif dis girl?"

"Da--"

"Now listen ta me, son. Dis isn't as simple as yeh'd like ta tink it is."

"An' exactly how isn't it simple?"

"Dere's tin's ta tink about besides just what yeh want ta remember. Dere's da liability o' havin' a woman around.--"

"Trista knows all about us, Da. She knows what she's gettin' inta."

"But can yeh really have it on yer conscience dat yeh've gotten her int' it?"

"It's not on my conscience, Da. She a big girl; she can take care o' herself. If she didn' wan' ta be in this, she wouldn' have come all this way."

"Even so, dere's de part about takin' care o' yer own. Havin' an attachment like dat looks mighty good ta da people we're up against. It's a weakness, Connor, an'--"

"Trista _is_ my own." Connor raised his voice defiantly, a rare action for him when talking with his father.

"Trista _is not_ yer own," Da said forcefully, raising his voice to match his son's tone. "_Murphy _is yer own. _I_ am yer own. Dat girl is not yer own. Yeh have family obligations ta tink of 'ere. Dere are more important ting's--"

"There are not more important thing's ta me." Connor yelled, standing from his chair.

"Connor--"

"No. Yeh're not goin' ta fuckin' talk me outta this."

"No, I am not goin' ta let yeh do dis ta yerself. Or t' us. Connor, when I married yer moder--"

"Oh, Jesus fuckin' Christ, Da!"

"When," Da said more slowly, more firmly, "I married yer moder I was da same as yeh're now. An' I didn' know what de consequences would be. Connor, I'm goin' ta stand by an' let yeh put yerself in dat kind o' danger. And I'm not goin' ta let yeh put her in it eider. Yer broder and I, we can take care of ourselves. But dat girl cannot. She may tink she knows what she's getting' inta, but she has not got da slightest idea, son. But if yeh let her come inta dis, someday she will, an' notin' will be de same fer her or you again."

Connor waited a long moment, his breathing harsh and hurried with emotion. He seemed about to say something, but then remembered to whom he was speaking and his filial obligation stopped him. He gave a curt shake of his head and stormed out the door.

From the couch, Murphy watched his brother go, then turn to look at his father. "He loves her, Da."

Da looked at Murphy on the couch, then looked away and turned back to his room. Murphy thought he wouldn't respond, but just before he shut the door he said, "He'll kill 'er den, or kill 'imself tryin' ta stop it."

Murphy tried not to let that sentence touch him, but it did. And deep inside, he wondered if it wouldn't be better just to send her back to Boston after all.

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A/N: gasp Murphy, how can you think such thoughts?! ) Review, please!


	16. The Cons of Settling Down

"So I just came from my interview

A/N: It's not my fault! The site wouldn't let me log in yesterday! …well here it is anyways.

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"So I just came from my interview!" Trista announced as she entered the MacManuses' apartment.

"How'd it go?" asked Connor from his mattress.

"I nailed it!" Trista exclaimed, beaming. "The guy was all 'How are we going to know you'll work well after what happened at your last job?' and I was all, 'Well, I had a family emergency here in Chicago and that's why I moved closer to home.' God, I am such a good liar. And he kept asking stuff like 'Why didn't you get along with your old boss?' and I just said we didn't really get along, and yet somehow the guy said Turnbaum gave me a stellar recommendation, which I definitely deserved, but I did kind of leave him in the lurch a lot. Anyways. It was great, and I am quite confident that I will be getting a call any day now saying I got the job."

"Great, then yeh can use yer influence ta get Connor a job in the mail room er somethin'," Murphy joked, poking his brother and hoping to spur him into action. Connor had been out looking a bit but wasn't running after a job, and Murphy wanted him to more because he needed to be occupied than because they needed the money.

"Why don't you just get him a job where you work?" Trista asked, plopping down next to Connor.

"Ay, I can get a job fer myself, thanks," said Connor indignantly.

"Well, then perhaps you should show us how well you can do that," Trista suggested. If it had been anyone else, Connor would have protested, but it was Trista, so he let it go. He would get a job. And she would be happy with him. "Well, are we going out or staying in?" Trista changed the topic.

"We're goin' out," Connor replied and then, looking to his brother, "I'll go shower." Then he disappeared into the bathroom.

Murphy rose from where he was sitting. "I'm… goin' ta go… down t' the bar," he said weakly. He knew Connor wanted Trista and Da to have some time alone together and that this was why his brother had looked so pointedly at him as he'd left.

Trista watched Murphy exit regretfully. She'd never had any problem getting on with Murphy, but the boys' father was another thing completely. At first she'd tried making conversation, but had found he much preferred to sit silently. This was fine with her, except that he somehow always seemed to be watching her, even when she could plainly see he wasn't. She had the feeling he didn't entirely approve of her relationship with his son. There wasn't much she could do about it, though, and she wasn't about to give up on Connor just because of what his father thought. Connor was a big boy. He could think for himself. If he thought it wasn't a good idea, now that would be another thing.

Trista glanced over at Da where he sat on the couch, then laid back on the bed to stare at the ceiling. She could hear the shower running through the wall and imagined she could feel it dripping on her head. There were cracks in the ceiling it was dripping from. The drips were slow and tapped harshly on her brow. Plunk. Plunk. Pl--

"So, yeh're settlin' down here, are yeh?" Da broke into her reverie.

Trista lifted herself up onto her elbows and nodded. "Well, yes. I didn't come just for a visit." Then she winced inside, fearing her statement would seem cheeky.

But Da's expression didn't change, and he didn't seem to think anything of it. "Yeh tink dat's wise?"

Trista sat up. "What do you mean?"

"Well, yeh're leavin' yer family behind ta start."

Trista shook her head. "My family is almost nonexistent. My mother's dead and my father and I haven't spoken for years."

"An' yeh tink dat's wise?"

Trista had to pause before she spoke, wondering why he was suddenly so openly judgmental of her life. "Well, it's not ideal, I suppose, but yes, I do think it's wise. My father and I always did have very different opinions on things."

"An' yeh didn' tink it best ta listen t' his advice?"

"Not in all matters, no. And particularly not in one matter, which is the reason for us not speaking."

" 'T seems it would be a radder important matter, one dat could separate a fadder and daughter."

Trista only stared at Da until he raised his eyebrows, prompting a response. "It was."

"An' yeh didn' tink in such an important matter he might have a point?"

"I'm sure he had a point and in fact I listened to it. I just didn't agree with it. Now what does this have to do with you, Mr. MacManus? With all do respect, I doubt that it's any of your business."

Da considered this a minute. "It isn't any o' my business, dearie, but as much as yeh were willin' ta say is as much as I wanted ta know."

"What does that mean?"

"Exactly what it seems like, m'dear."

Da seemed contented to stop talking, so Trista lay back down on the mattress to dream of plunk-plunking water again, but she seemed unable to let the conversation go. Then something else came to mind. "What is to finish?" she asked, sitting up again.

"Ta finish what, dear?"

"You said I was leaving my family to start. What is to finish? What is the rest?"

Da leaned forward and gazed at her for a moment. "Yeh're leavin' yer family. An' yeh're leavin' yer friends. An' yeh're leavin' yer job."

"Well, I've got a new job. And my friends never were that great to begin with," Trista rebutted.

"An' yeh're comin' here," Da continued, his tone steady, "ta be wit my son, who isn't as available as yeh'd like ta tink."

"What does _that_ mean?" Trista exclaimed, slightly appalled, and her heart jumped to her throat though she knew she had nothing to fear from Connor.

"It means what it seems it means, darlin'. Connor has tings ta be doin' an' no time ta be lookin' after a girl such as you."

"A girl such as me?" Trista said indignantly. "I'm not sure what you're suggesting by that, Mr. MacManus, but I don't need any looking after."

"Perhaps."

"I've been on my own completely for seven years now and somehow I've managed not to get myself into any trouble… or at least any trouble I couldn't get out of."

Da gave Trista a look. "That was before yeh fell in wit deh MacManuses, m'dear."

And then Trista understood. "Look, Mr. MacManus, I know what I'm getting into here. I mean I know all about it… everything."

"Do yeh now?"

"I do."

"Well, excuse my sayin' so, but I surmise yeh know a bit less dan yeh tink yeh do."

"And how is that?"

"Yeh may tink yeh know what goes on o' nights, m'dear, but yeh haven't been dere an' God willin' yeh'll never have ta."

Trista took a moment to respond. "I was there one night when they came home. The night Murphy got shot. I was there."

"An' dat makes yeh an expert, does it?"

"No, but--"

"Trista, dear, I know yeh tink yeh know what it is ta do what we do, ta be involved in such a tin, but yeh'll just 'ave ta trust me when I say dat yeh don't. Yeh don't."

Trista clenched her teeth and bit back retorts. That was the last thing she needed to do. She took an deep breath and closed her eyes for a minute, recalling quick flashes of a time gone by. "With all due respect once again, Mr. MacManus--" which she was beginning to think was less than she had originally given him "--I know a little more about all that than you think I do."

Da looked at Trista through narrowed eyes, but did not ask her what she meant. He was good at reading people and he could tell she wasn't about to expound.

Trista was about to lay back on the bed once again when Connor made a well-timed exit from the bathroom, almost as if he had been listening at the door for the end of the conversation. And knowing Connor and how much he wanted Trista to get on well with his father, she didn't put it past him. Why ever he would think the conversation was going well, though, was beyond her. Perhaps he hadn't been exactly listening at the door, just listening to the muffled voices. In either case he had come out now and Trista was glad of it. "Ready to go?" she asked, hopefully.

"Yeah, sure," he said, looking nervously between his girlfriend and his father. He was obviously expecting to get some sort of hint as to where the conversation had gone, but Da's face was blank and Trista was just focused on getting out. So Connor took Trista's hand as she rose from the bed and they exited the apartment without a word to its last occupant.

Two steps down the hall, Connor couldn't help but ask, "So, how'd it go with Da an' yeh?"

Trista rolled here eyes, though she made sure Connor couldn't see. "Con…" she fumbled, then sighed. "Don't ask."

Connor was worried, and he wasn't afraid to show it. "What does that mean?"

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A/N: Review, please!


	17. Sunny Times

"We'd like you to come in on Wednesday to have a look around," the secretary had said when she'd called Trista about her new job

"We'd like you to come in on Wednesday to have a look around," the secretary had said when she'd called Trista about her new job. And so, it now being Wednesday, Trista was taking a tour of the offices of the Chicago Sun Times led by the very same secretary who had been given the exciting task of calling her to offer her the job. She seemed thoroughly unenthused about the whole thing, as pleasant of a task as it seemed to be able to offer someone a job and show them around and all. But Trista supposed she did it so often it had become commonplace and dull, so she excused her. "General cubicles, same as in any office. Conference rooms. Break room. Callahan's office. Rand's office. Durham's office. Elevators…"

Trista zoned out after that. She might be working in Chicago now, but it didn't change much of anything but the setting, and even that looked remarkably similar. Besides, this wasn't even the floor she'd be working on and as she wasn't much of a social butterfly around the office, she didn't think she'd be seeing these people much… or ever again. Trista was happy she had a job, sure; she needed to pay the rent. But she wasn't nearly excited enough about it to actually make an effort to be friends with her coworkers. Journalism was just how she paid the bills. A few years ago, it had been something more to her, something far more. But sometime in the past six months that had changed, and Trista wasn't exactly sure when that had been. She hadn't been an exemplary worker to begin with, sure, but that was mainly because she'd been stuck up in a cubicle researching road construction. She was far too good for that and everyone around her knew it, but everybody had to start at the bottom. She understood that, but that didn't mean she had to be happy about it. And then the Saints story and the brothers… and before she knew it, writing was just what she did for a living, no longer what she did. And now she wasn't sure what she did. She was just sure that she didn't want it to be writing. But journalism had been her major and journalism was the area she had experience in, and so journalism was how she would make her living, at least until something better came along.

The secretary ushered her into an elevator and they rose a few more floors. When the doors dinged open, there was a small crowd of people waiting for them, and Trista was introduced to each in turn. They were mostly executives, come to meet and greet the new employee. They didn't come down to meet everyone, to be sure, but there seemed to be a lot of buzz about Trista around the office, which not surprising given her history in Boston. There was a Mr. Hansen and a Mr. George and a Ms. Kent and a Mr. Collins, and there were a few others whose names Trista knew she would never be able to remember. And then there was a Mr. Breton, who touched her a little too low on the back and whispered in her ear before he left, "Come see me in my office sometime."

And then, when they were all gone, the secretary took Trista down the hall and showed her to her office and gave her the keys and left her alone. And then Trista finally exhaled and inhaled again and could breathe and sat down at her desk and looked around and believed that she could probably make the place work.

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A/N: Review, please!


	18. What She Got Into

Trista pranced up the steps of Mrs

A/N: Hello, lovelies. I must admit I was hoping for more than one review this past chapter since the same person has been reviewing all. So you can thank our friend dragonzfire718 for all the reviews she's given as I am doing now. Well anyways, this chapter makes me reeeeeeally happy. Yay. Why? Because it's the beginning of the awesomeness of the story. At least it's pretty awesome to write. But I think you'll like it a lot, so I'm hoping I get more reviews…….. you're right I have no pride when it comes to reviews. Anyways, enjoy.

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Trista pranced up the steps of Mrs. O'Donnell's house to the MacManuses' apartment. It had been a good day at work, but a good day at work was the equivalent of a bad day anywhere else to Trista. She was ecstatic to be out of there and even more ecstatic to be skipping over to pay Connor a surprise visit. She loved that she could pay him a surprise visit, or a visit at all. In the past weeks, the two had spent nearly every waking moment together and had become closer than ever. If Da's prodding was meant to drive a wedge between them , it seemed to be doing the exact opposite. If anything it was becoming the glue that held them together, solder that welded them tight, the heat that melded them into one, and so on and so forth. Connor wasn't happy with his father for putting Trista in the position he'd put her in. he hadn't been happy with the wedge he was trying to drive between them in the first place, but it had been one thing to voice his opinion to his son and it was another entirely now that Da thought it his place to mention such things to Trista. So Connor and Trista were on the same page as far as the older MacManus went. He'd overstepped his bounds. And they weren't going to let him into their heads. The world was a wonderful and happy place for the couple in spite of what any others might do to try to make it otherwise. In any case, Da hadn't mentioned the issue since his slight confrontation with Trista, and all were happy to leave it that way, especially Murphy.

Trista knew that Murphy was thrilled to have her back, and thrilled to have Connor back as well for that matter, but she could also tell that he hated being caught in the middle, which he was a bit. And there had been a time when he'd been drunk beyond recognition, though she recognized him well this way having seen him in the state often, when he'd admitted to her that sometimes he wished they hadn't met up with their father, because it had all been so much more simple before he'd come along. Now he lead. Now he dictated. Now they listened to him and were required by that lovely filial obligation to respect him and do as he said. And the MacManuses never liked to answer to anyone. At first it had been easy, they'd deferred to his judgment. He had been doing the whole thing a lot longer than they had, after all. They'd seen the wisdom in that and followed it. And Da had never said anything of it when they went gallivanting around town drinking and cavorting and whatnot, even if he wasn't particularly fond of it. But now Murphy was finally able to admit that it was hard having him around. They were grown, and they knew what they were doing. They'd always taken care of themselves and each other. They didn't need all the advice and direction he wanted to give. And if they needed it, they didn't want it. They'd rather make mistakes of their own volition than live perfectly by someone else's decisions. It was the same with most people, but with the MacManuses it was more, had always been more in their family, would always be more. They were independent, self-sufficient, and horribly restless. And now they were getting restless of living in a life with boundaries.

And then there had been the part, the little part, where Murphy had admitted that he thought Connor was a little crazy, trapping himself in a relationship. "Yer great, Tris. Yeh know I think yer great," he'd said. "Christ, yer like a sister ta me. Fuckin' Christ, Tris, yer great! Yer so great! Yer so great it's almost not like bars at all. But it is. Fuck, yer great!" And Trista had not begrudged him these words. They were words she understood. She also understood that, unlike his father, Murphy would let Connor make his own decisions, even if he didn't understand or agree with them. And that was why they all got on so well. Each was horridly strong willed, but each ran his or her own life, too. Trista was perfectly happy with the way things were going and wonderfully ecstatic to be right where she was: prancing up the steps to the MacManuses' apartment.

She skipped up the stairs, one, two, three, four, five… with a six pack in her left hand and her purse in her right… six, seven, eight, nine… stepped onto the landing and click-clicked down the hall in the heals she'd worn to work that day, and cheerily opened the door to the apartment. "Surprise! I brought some pre--"

Trista's words died in her throat, and her mouth went suddenly dry.

Connor looked up from where he was standing next to the couch. In front of him was a small black bag, in his hand, a rather not-small gun. Standing at the dilapidated table behind the couch was Murphy, a similar-looking bag in front of him, into which he was stuffing unidentifiable objects. On the opposite end of the couch from Connor, Da sat, cigar in mouth, black duffel bag to the side, watching his sons and waiting. At Trista's entrance, all eye flew immediate to her and all bodies froze. "Trista!" Connor dropped his gun into the bag and sped to her side. "Jesus, Trista," and in his voice was worry, worry and not a speck of reproach.

Trista broke her stare from Connor's bag as he touched her arm. "No," she said, recovering, "it's fine. I'm fine. It's fine." Connor's worried expression did not change. She smiled for him. "No big deal, Con."

"Trista--"

"It's no big deal," she said, pulling away from him and broadening her smile. "It's not like I didn't know about this. I just didn't know it would be happening tonight. It caught me off guard is all." She paused, waiting for them to move. "Well," she said after a moment, "continue with what you were doing."

But they didn't. Not quite. And when at last she convinced them that they should, they were slow about it. Da shook his head and fretted about the time, but the brothers did not go any faster. They would not. They could not. They were too distracted by Trista. Though she sat on Connor's bed and didn't ask any questions about where or when or why or how they were going to do what they were going to do, she distracted them. There was really nothing she could have done differently, better. But her presence was strange to them. Perhaps it wouldn't be strange if she were ever there again in the future. She hoped not. But perhaps it would always be a little strange.

Twenty minutes later, Connor stood above her looking down, seeming to be considering something. Da and Murphy had left already and Trista was shooing him along to his work, but somehow he would not go. He knelt down and gave her a long, slow kiss, then finally rose and left her alone in the dingy apartment.

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She could not sleep. She could not leave. She was far more bothered by this than she should have been. Trista supposed anyone would be bothered to have someone they loved in danger. She thought for a moment she might have understood a bit more about her father, maybe why he'd done what he'd done, maybe it hadn't been so horrid after all. And then she kicked herself for compromising and forgot those feelings completely, refocusing on her obsession over the Saints' welfare. And then that, too, got to her and she tried to put it out of her mind. She was having a difficult time with that, however. She was sitting on the couch wrapped in the afghan she'd brought over to the apartment herself for when she was hanging out there, and she could not stop thinking about the hit.


	19. Father Knows Best

He was a rapist and far worse than a murderer

He was a rapist and far worse than a murderer. He was a manipulator. He twisted his victim's tongues and muddled their memories. Somehow he knew exactly which victims to choose in order to best manipulate their weaknesses. The courts could never get him. The victims never spoke, never squealed. And when someone brought a case, the victims never testified. There was never any evidence of any substantial kind, and though nothing could ever be proven well enough for him to be convicted, no one in the city and indeed very few in the country had any doubt that he'd done it. He'd done it all. He was good. And now he would be dead.

It was a quick hit and a quick death, though he did not deserve it. The Saints put three bullets in the back of his head. They told him why he had to die, but he hadn't needed to be told. He'd already known and accepted. It seemed he'd believed all along they'd get him in the end. It was easy enough for him to escape the court system. Red tape was his friend and he knew how to make use of it. They were his only real opponents, he'd said just before they'd shot him. They were the only ones brave enough to stand up and do what was necessary. They were the only ones unafraid to cross the invisible lines society had built up that protected people like him. They were the only ones criminals had to fear. And now they were multiplying, growing a following. They could hide out in half the houses in the country if they ever needed it. That was a power even he didn't have.

There was something in what he said that tugged at the corners of the minds of the brothers. They could make a perfect team. He never said it but they could tell he was thinking it. And they were thinking it too. It was not the type of thinking one would ever actually put into action, but it was a notion, an occurrence in the mind. Connor and Murphy stalled, sharing a look. They wanted to hear what he had to say. They knew they would never go along with him if a proposition was made, but they wanted to hear what he had to say. And when it was all over they understood why he'd never been caught. It was in the simple conversation that his trick lay. It was in the things he did not say rather than those he did. It was in the ideas he communicated, but never was heard to speak aloud. It was why he hadn't been caught. And it was why he had to be killed. But in that knowledge lay for the brothers a soft sort of regret. They would not have stopped his death for the world or gone back and changed it. But if things had been different, they thought, if the world were different, he might have saved as many lives as he'd ruined. And the most noble, brilliant, perfect surgeon might have been a rapist.

It took very little for a person to kill, they thought, but to orchestrate the things he had, a person had to be… extraordinary.

Da had not hesitated for a second. He had learned, over the years, to block out all pleas for help or bargains made. He had learned not to listen to the ramblings of lunatics and geniuses. He had forced his sons to cut short the monologue. He had lifted their hand to his head himself, instructed them to say the prayer, pull the trigger. His boys had followed his words at first, but then first one then the other had dropped off to listen, had stopped speaking to be spoken to. So Da had finished the prayer alone and hoped practicality would force his sons to pull the triggers of their guns. And when the last word had been spoken, all three guns had gone off as one and the man's narration, as his life, had been ended.

Now the extraordinary was gone, and only the ordinary left. The ordinary men who had risen up and decided enough was enough. And as they left that night, Connor and Murphy realized that they were just that, ordinary. They corners of their mind had been tugged at, and if he had said it, if he had asked it… would they have agreed? Perhaps, they thought, they should listen to their father after all.

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A/N: Review Please!


	20. A Quiet Peace and Determination

**Murphy was the first one home. He moved quietly, as he always did when coming in from a hit. The last thing they needed was for Mrs. O'Donnell to wake up and start noticing things. Night hits were the best when walking the streets, but the worst when coming home. Of course daytime hits were rare, because the boys still had to work to live. The bigger hits often brought in money and guns and gold, but they had yet to break into the big time in Chicago, which was probably why the newspapers figured they were the copycats. Da… well, as for Da, the boys hadn't the slightest idea what he did during the day, but somehow he was always off somewhere living his mysterious life. He was a quiet one, Da, except when it came to matters involving Trista, of course. And the brothers never could quite figure him out. Perhaps if they'd grown up with him they would have understood better, but they doubted it. He was an enigma, and he wouldn't tell them enough about his life to even begin to explain.**

**Murphy creaked the door open and creaked it shut behind him. He was not surprised to find Trista asleep on the couch covered in her burgundy afghan. He sauntered over to the refrigerator, pulled out a beer, and sauntered back over to the couch. He watched Trista for a long time, considering. For a moment he thought of waking her, but then thought better of it. There would be plenty of time for her to be awake once Connor was home and she didn't have to worry anymore. Murphy knew that even should he tell her Connor was fine, there had been no mishaps, she would still not be satisfied until she could see that fact for herself. Who would be? He wondered if Trista would ever get used to this. And then he wondered how he had. How had it become so natural to them? He did not know. They had slipped into it quite easily, adapted without much distress. There were times, times like this moment, when he and his brother thought on all that had come to pass and got a bit of a queasy feeling in their stomachs, wondering and not completely remembering the truth of how they had gotten to where they were. But for the most part, in the normal course of a day, the brothers simply lived their lives.**

**Murphy walked to the door and considered going out. He certainly wouldn't be able to sleep in his current state. But he thought better of that as well. Instead, he sat down on the floor next to the door and leaned back against the wall. He remembered the beer in his hand and opened it.**

**It was in this state that Connor found Murphy when he returned home. As he stepped in the door, he felt Murphy's hand on his knee and looked down before looking anywhere else. Murphy gestured to the couch, not wanting Connor to accidentally wake the girl sleeping there. Connor nodded silently. He set down the two black bags he was carrying, his and his brother's, next to Murphy and ran a hand through his hair. He knelt down next to Trista where she lay on the couch and laid a finger to her cheek. She did not stir. A little line of blood appeared where his finger had just traced, and Connor sighed at the sight of it. He rose from his place and went to the bathroom to wash up, bringing out a towel and gently wiping away the blood from Trista's face. When he was cleaned up and changed into fresh clothes, he finally spoke.**

"**I'm going to take her home."**

"**She can stay here, Con. It's not like she hasn't before," Murphy replied in the same low tone.**

**Connor shook his head. "I can't be here when Da gets home," he replied, "and neither can she."**

**Murphy nodded, knowing what Connor meant and why he said it. That was the last thing either of them needed right now. He rose from where he had been sitting and walked over to stand next to his brother as the fairer twin lifted Trista gently from the couch and situated her in his arms. Connor had no delusions that she would actually stay asleep all the way back to her place, but he could try his best to let her. He nodded to his brother and carried Trista out the door, down the steps and into the street.**

**Connor had walked two blocks before Trista woke completely, but wake she did. Connor shushed her and told her to go back to sleep, though he knew it would make no difference. And Trista protested and insisted on being let down.**

"**No," she said, a quiet peace and determination. "I'll walk with you."**


	21. Touching on the Point

**A/N: Hi Guys! I just have to say: I love this chapter. I love this part in the story, but this particular chapter to me is just…. Yay. Hope it makes you as happy as it makes me (not that it's a particularly happy chapter, just cool) and R&R.**

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**Trista's apartment in Chicago was nicer that the one she'd had in Boston. She hadn't set out to find a nice apartment, but she hadn't turned it down when she'd found one. The kitchen was newly remodeled and more spacious than her last; the cabinets were a dark wood and the appliances stainless. The living room was to the left of the front door as you walked in with the kitchen to the right, which was brilliant in Trista's mind because she feared if they had been switched that she might have continually entered the living room for a glass of water and vacuumed the kitchen floor. The place had come furnished, and that was costing her an arm and a leg, but it was better to Trista to be limbless than to have to go couch-shopping. The couch was a sort of cinnamon color and there was an armchair of the same hue. It was a far more grown-up living room than Trista was used to and she'd had a hard time getting comfortable in it at first. Against the far left wall of the living room were two doors. The first one was the bedroom, furnished with a sleigh bed, a matching dresser and not yet much else, and the second was the bathroom, tiled in earthy stone and lacking a soap dish. It was in the bedroom that Trista and Connor now slept.**

**Actually, it was in the bedroom that Connor now slept and Trista tossed and turned, catching at sleep only briefly now and again. After a good while of this, she decided there was nothing for it but to get up and try not to disturb Connor. If she could not sleep, at least he could, but she knew he would not long be able to if she continued on the way she'd been going. So she very carefully rose from the bed, padded out into the living room, and sat herself down on the couch, the giant fluffy pillow she loved at her back and the burgundy afghan that was the exact duplicate of the one she'd left at Connor's over her shoulders. The nights were chilly still and, in fact, so were the days, and Trista doubted that either would warm up too soon. But she didn't mind the chill of the night. It made the air fresh and ready, as opposed to the dazed and languid nights of summer, the heat that kept one awake because of its mere suffocating presence, like company in a closed house.**

**Trista glanced about the room. It was plain, nothing to remark on, not a conversation piece in sight. She and Connor didn't need prompts for conversation, and as far as she was concerned, conversation with anyone who did need prompts wasn't worth the effort anyways. Trista reached forward to the one item littering the coffee table: a worn paperback. She flipped through the pages, considering reading it, then set it down. She didn't have the heart. She wasn't awake out of insomnia she was awake out of memory, and there was no way a book could get rid of that. She was remembering Peter, and not even endless time could get rid of that.**

**Peter was always walking his dog when Trista walked by on her way in. He always greeted herwith a smile and a wave, whichshe returned. She'd never spoken more than a few words to him, didn't know his parents, didn't even know his last name. But she cut out the article from the paper and hid it behind her mother's picture. Peter Finnegan was twelve years old. And he was dead.**

**He had been tall for his age and blonde with a healthily tanned and freckled face. His dog's name had been Sandy for her colouring, the same sandy colour as his hair. He'd lived in a tan house with planters in the front windows. He'd had a younger sister. He'd been on a bus on the way home from school. **

**It had blown up.**

**Trista shook her head to clear it of the thoughts. It worked.**

**For a moment.**

**There were a lot of kids on that bus. But it wasn't as though there was anything she could have done. Then again...**

**Trista started. There was a movement from inside the bedroom and she knew Connor had awoken to find her missing from the bed. In a few seconds he would emerge through the door and ask her if anything was the matter and she would say no as she always did, she just couldn't sleep. So the thoughts would stop now, as long as he stayed with her. But she would never ask him to stay for fear he would read too far into her thoughts. Why she feared that, she did not know, but she feared it nonetheless. So whether he stayed or not would be his own decision, but in the interim of his deciding her mind would pound only with two words: I'll stay.**

**Connor appeared in the doorway. "What'er yeh doin' up?"**

**"Couldn't sleep," she said with a shrug.**

**Connor sighed and ran his hand through his hair. "I'll stay."**

**Trista felt herself relax, but forced out anyway, "You don't have to, Con. Get some sleep."**

**Connor shook his head. "I'll stay."**

**Inside Trista breathed a giant sigh of relief as Connor took a seat next to her and her nagging thoughts only tugged a bit at the corners of her mind. Could she have stopped it? Would his sister remember him? Why did he have to be on that bus?**

**"Tris, are yeh okay about las' night?"**

**Trista looked at him and considered how to respond. "I knew what I was signing on for."**

**"That doesn' mean yer okay."**

**She gave a small, slightly exasperated sigh. Would it always be this way? "I'm fine, Connor."**

**"Then why can't yeh sleep?"**

**Him not knowing and her not telling? Him thinking of her as the sweet girl from Boston? Her pretending to be that person? Would it always be this way? "Because I'm not tired. Because I got up in the middle of the night and walked here."**

**"Are yeh sayin' yeh'd've liked ta be there when Da got back?"**

**"That isn't what I said, Connor, if you would listen." But then, was it really all that bad?**

**"Fine. Then what the hell is it yer sayin', Tris? Cause I'm not gettin' it."**

**Trista was quiet for a moment, taking in his tone. Then she looked over at him. "Are we really going to fight about this?" Connor looked back at her and the answer in his eyes was, "No. You're right," though he did not say it. Trista sighed. "I'm not okay, Connor, but I will be." Connor nodded, but Trista could see that he was still concerned. "I wasn't expecting it. And though I've known, I've never been so close." Connor nodded. He knew these things. "There isn't anything else I can say about it."**

**Connor thought about this a long while and then, "Does it make yeh feel... unsafe?"**

**Trista shook her head immediately and adamantly. "No," she said softly, and it was the truth. And in her heart she knew that she had stumbled precisely upon the issue. In the MacManuses' apartment standing next to them as they'd laid guns in the small black duffel bags, she'd felt completely safe. And that was exactly the problem.**


End file.
